


Creature Feature

by surely_silly



Series: all good children grow teeth and claws gently [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Horns (2013), Horns - Joe Hill
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Canon-Typical Violence, Creature Fic, Creature Inheritance, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-18 10:52:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 39
Words: 31,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7312111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surely_silly/pseuds/surely_silly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A horcrux, some polyjuice, an entire bottle of skelegro, too much basilisk venom, enough phoenix tears, a day's worth of time travel, half a dementor's kiss, and a handful of gillyweed. Oh, and Death, so much <i>Death</i>.</p><p>You'd think something would manifest thanks to so many outside triggers, wouldn't you?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. price of admission, fumes and gas emission

"Quit your scratching, boy! Do you have fleas or something?"

 

 

 

Harry drops his hand from his hairline, biting the inside of his cheek to stave off the itch on his temples and his own short temper. "No, Uncle Vernon," he grumbles, scraping burnt bits out of the frying pan and into the bin.

There's a huff from behind him, and the need to scratch increases. "Better not! Probably would have some kind of freakish fleas, wouldn't you? I'll toss you out on your ear if you do."

Threats of that caliber are rather old-hat at this point, but he'd rather not go without lunch and dinner today, missing breakfast of any sort as is. Harry dunks the pan into the sink with a sigh, and washes the breakfast plates clean, worries a small bloody spot on his lip. He tries to drink as many handfuls of water he can between plates, cups, forks and spoons, but it's not many before Aunt Petunia banishes him out into the backyard until noon.

Alone in the relative shade of the house for the moment, he wipes the leftover water from his lips and presses damp fingers to his temples, tries to soothe the twin points of irritation. It works for all of one blessed second before returning worse, an increasingly annoying heat and burn. With a long suffering groan, Harry makes for the shed and tools. 

It's hard going to make the backyard presentable as quickly as he usually can after term ends, distracted with wandering, dirty hands. It's been at least a three weeks, and he's barely a third of the way done on top of the newest project. Potted plants, some for inside, some for out, and Harry's sure cow manure smeared across his forehead will be one way to lose lunch privileges for sure. _Stay on task, don't think, don't think_ —

 

 

 

The rest of the day is uneventful, without further incident.

Until Harry goes to take a shower that is, and comes out of it with a blackhead like a welt festering where he's been itching all day.

Thankfully, it's just the one, only incredibly sore to the touch, and encouraging a splitting headache. Despairing, he can only put a band-aid over it and hustle back to his room before anyone can see, hope reverently it's gone by morning.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Except, the moon shines bright though his window much, much later as sweat marks his brow, and pain aches deep in his skull. Hedwig's silent in her cage, but he decides to ask, in the chance he missed it.

Harry asks her, croaks really, "Any mail, girl?" and she can only give a soft hoot in return, talons griped tight round her perch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have not read any of the books.
> 
> This will be mixed from the books, movies, and games because of the resources I'm using and I can't tell what is and isn't from what without watching all the movies again. The games will only be contributing characters so try not to worry about it (I've never played them either so, yeah), just know you'll need to have at east seen The Order of the Phoneix. Also, while this is in 5th year, a lot of minor details will have been different in past years, but you'll be able to figure them out, I think.  
> Hope you all enjoy! Lemme know with kudos and such please, and any messages are welcome.


	2. the usher takes a bow

It does not go away, and it only gets worse.

"Am I growing horns?" he hisses, sleep deprived and hair a wild mess. Hysteria and panic are bubbling at the back of his throat, burning bile, and his exploring fingers catch on the slight hooks he can feel sprouting from his temples—

Harry nearly whites out from the pain when he gives them an experimental _tug_. He stumbles, and knocks Hedwig's cage, gets her into a right snit as she's splashed with the water from her bowl. What he was thinking, he's not sure, _they're growing out of his head, Merlin's beard!_

The poor boy's trying to earn her forgiveness, swallow back rising saliva, when his door rattles with two sharp knocks. "Up, up, boy! Time to cook breakfast," comes testily from the other side, "I'll not have you lazing around all day!"

 _Not that I ever could,_ he sneers above the sudden fear. "Coming Aunt Petunia," he calls back, and the outside lock disengages, but she thankfully does not come in to drag him out.

Spinning around, helplessly looking for something, anything, to cover up his probably ruined forehead, Harry ends up on his pillowcase. He maybe whines a little sorrowfully at it, because hey, he's only ever had the one, and now he's ripping it to strips.

He steps from his room and to the bathroom nerves shot to hell. It's a weak hope that the headband doesn't look too bumpy, and only enough to hold his hair back from his face, hide the dark rings of skin. Harry might've been planning to ask after a hair cut, something nice and short. He's definitely not now. 

_Don't think, don't think—_

 

 

 

 

 

"What on _earth_ are you wearing?"

Freezing, frying pan just in hand, he swallows. "It's just to keep my hair out of face is all, Aunt Petunia," he says, but does not turn around, tries to continue uninterrupted to get breakfast ready. He got all the blood off, good boy.

There's an aggravated sigh. "I'll get you a haircut," is her reply, and it shoots a thrill of fear down his spine.

"I'm fine! Honest, you don't need to waste money on me for a haircut," he says, and tries to sound like he means it, to choke back the bitterness and anger. The boy knows she's learned her lesson about cutting his hair on her own. "Keep it, I'm sure you have _much_ better things to spend it on."

She doesn't say anything for a moment. Harry thinks for a blind second he might have actually given her _feelings,_ hah!

 

 

Only, yes, he does, the fool boy.

 

 

"Yes. _Yes._ On my _own_ family for one, not some little _freak,_ " she starts, spits, and it's the most nasty and mean he's ever heard her. So much so Harry has fallen still, a sudden and burning desire to know and remember every word she wants snarl at him.  _What do you really think?_

There's a slam like hands on the table, the rattle of placed cutlery, as she continues, nearly at a shriek. "Food! Clothing for my diddykins, a new razor for my darling husband. Much better things than your rat's nest of a head! My own wand? My own freak books? My own sister, if she'd never BEEN A FREAK!"

 

 

 

The silence after is deafening, terribly heavy and a seeming void. Harry feels almost like he can't breath. _Freak, freak._ The egg in his hand meets a sorry end on the floor, just right of his feet, and he slowly turns around.  _Killed_ —

Aunt Petunia's thin face is stunned, color completely gone save for two splotches of bright red. Her lips work as if she's not a clue to what just happened. _Harry_ doesn't have a clue to what just happened, but he feels like it's his fault anyway. Most things are.

They both look up at a thump, startled.

" _Mum?_ " comes muffled through the ceiling, and Harry's heart gives a quick jump.  _Dudley._

Harry looks back to her, feeling downright sick, but Aunt Petunia looks away in turn. She touches a pale, trembling hand to her lips, eyes closing briefly, and gets up. Wanders out of the kitchen and up stairs in what looks like a dead daze.

Breakfast is finished on something like autopilot. The egg is cleaned up, everything cooked and set out without much thought. The hot spot radiating in his chest leaves him too drained to manage much else. Harry thinks he gets the evil eye from Uncle Vernon, but he's also pretty sure he wishes he'd seen the registration number for the hippogriff that ran him over.

 

 

 

 

 

 

He wanders outside of his own volition at half past nine, and gets to work. 

_Shut up, shut up—_

 


	3. a box office hit

A week passes.

Harry doesn't know what game Aunt Petunia is playing at, but he's willing to go along with it if it means they never speak of that day again. He has a dreadful feeling she was being dead truthful with him for once in her life, and about things he never wanted to know about her.

 

 

 

He'd have rathered knowing a life of hatred then hatred, jealousy, and grief. _Shh, shh._

 

 

 

But, anyway, a week passes, a little more than seven days to be honest. The Dursleys' kick him out of the house after breakfast, all three scattering for the summer day. He pets the cats that litter Mrs. Figg's yard for a little while before ambling over to the park.

The day is good until Dudley and his little gang show up to just absolutely ruin it.

 

 

 

"Who's Cedric, your boyfriend, Potter?"

 

"Where's your mum, eh, Potter?"

 

"Is she dead?"

 

"She dead, Potter?"

 

Dead.

 

Dead.

 

_Dead._

 

 

 

 

" _What are you doing_?" is shrill, terrified, and Harry comes back to himself licked carefully in hoarfrost. He and Dudley are alone, and the street lights gutter out with sharp _pops._ Cold is seeping into his bones, but—

_Oh._

"Run," he whispers, stumbles a step up from the swing, and then his heart trips over in a restart, jolting with the foreign but familiar bite of deadly depression and faint screaming in his ears. He's grabbing his frozen cousin's arm before he knows it, really. " _Run! Dudley, run!_ "

 

 

 

They run, and for how some things change, some will remain the same.

 

 

 _"Expecto Patronum!_ " sounds as if from far off, down a long and winding tunnel, and with a dazzling gleam, a stag leaps forward, horns angled and lowered. It beats it's hoofs upon the concrete, and the beasts of Death and cold rear back, disperse with aggrieved screams as the deer lunges, and.

The night grows light.

Somewhere deep in London proper, in the Ministry of Magic, an alarm blinks awake.

 _Merlin's Beard,_ is Harry's last clear thought as Mrs. Fig manhandles him toward his downed cousin.


	4. everyone's a critic

Harry feels delirious from it all.

It's dehydration and hunger, and compounded disbelief and—and a lot of things, to tell the truth. He... He just doesn't want to think about it yet. Not yet. Maybe never. _Think about Hedwig, think about Hedwig, maybe she's back._ He'd sent her out, hoping beyond hope that someone would get here before the Ministry, before they came to _arrest_ him or something, if not the muggle police once Uncle Vernon got through the shock of a clammy and blue Dudley.

He's halfway up the stairs, left alone in a raging flurry, when he thinks, _No post, none at all._ That's a lie, though, and the letter in his hand is warped and wrinkled, soaked in one corner with cleaner, but something after all.

 

 

_"As a clear violation..._

_...of the Decree for the Reasonable_

_Restriction of Underage Sorcery..._

_...you are hereby expelled..."_

 

 

The words ring hollow in his ears, empty gongs, and it's only as the door to his room clicks shut behind him that he realize his pillow-strip is gone from his forehead, that his nose burns with the smell of chemicals and dusting polish. The horns are cool to the touch, and he has but one panicked moment, heart beginning to race all over again, _oh Merlin,_  to excuse the less observant fitfully before there is a crash from downstairs.

There's a split moment of indecision, and he chooses another piece of cloth instead of the wand in his pocket. It's a good thing too, for a furious voice outside his door is familiar, as is the white light trickling from underneath.

With a hard pull of his fingers, Harry has the band right in place just as—

"Professor Moody?"


	5. interlude pt.1: with great power

Oh _the power he knows not_ is still Love. Yes, _yes,_ it is still Love.

What, exactly, would Harry Potter be without _Love_ is a question you will not have answered here, oh no. Here there will be Love, all consuming, and once given it cannot be broken or taken back. It can be ruined, oh yes, it can be _ruined._ But, that's for the poor boy to decide.

 

 

 

The silly thing deserves that much.


	6. location, location, location

The Firebolt is smooth and sleek under his fingers, slightly dusty, but it lifts him up and up without a single complaint, and it feels like it's been _forever_ since he's been in the air.

Then, they're off, and Harry doesn't want to touch the ground ever again.

 

 

Disillusionment trickles over him like a comfortable cloak as they take a sharp dive from above a particularly high rise. They round a boat, brooms and feet skimming the Thames, and the wind snatches away his laugh of delight. The woman with kaleidoscope hair takes a diving barrel-roll from above him, grins wide as they slip under the Tower Bridge. Professor Moody shouts something, probably a reprimand, but this is the freest Harry has felt in... in a long time now, so he can't find it in himself to care, not right now.

Formation tightens, but the air is sharp and smokey in his lungs.

 _If only I were a bird,_ Harry thinks as they hit the bank and rise above the cityscape. 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The house is grimy and nasty, really dark and dusty, but weirdly warm. Harry doesn't get to see much of it before he's shuffled off, waving goodbye to Tonks as Mrs. Weasley stirs him away from the open door, from Sirius, from Remus, and their hushed voices, their meeting about _him,_  upstairs. Then Hermione and Ron are there.

 

 

 

He wants to be mad at them, he really does. Drag the truth out of them, and make them feel a little worse, maybe half as much as he really does. He's supposed to be their friend, best mate and all, and they wrote him _nothing_. But the boy doesn't get to any of that, mightily such as he might wish, because—because—

 

 

"Hermione?" he asks, curiously rooted to the spot because her face has gone somewhat strange. Like she wants to pull it threateningly, but not sure why or even really how.

 

 

Her eyes are also staring straight at his forehead, narrowed, and the breath she takes, exhales, is _hot_. So much so, Harry can feel it from his few feet away. Ron seems undisturbed, and mostly confused.

"Why are you wearing that headband, Harry?" she says instead, and he's never been more wary of her, drawing up defensively.

Ron takes it upon his self to point out the _obvious,_  even as it's not really true."It's to keep his hair from his face, duh, 'Mione," he teases, an easy grin taking to his face. "Bill did the same while his hair was growing out but not yet long enough for a ponytail." A pause. "Are you growing out your hair, mate?" he asks, and to Harry, like he's a little sad he wasn't told. 

Which he bloody well would have if _anyone_ had sent him a letter at all over the Summer. God, they don't know how it was so easy to just, just think they didn't like him anymore, didn't need him,  _want_ him anymore. Not after... _not after_ —

Hermione glares at Ron, eyes moving from Harry for a brief moment, and pinches him in the arm. He yelps in shock, hurt marring his reddening face, and then the girl's back to Harry, drifting between his forehead and his eyes. "No, there's... there's something there. Harry, what—"

The door to the room slams open, and Harry exhales, lets the anger fade, as in spill the twins, grins on their faces. He can see Ginny ghosting up behind them, hair fluttering, as she looks up and down the hall, waiting by the doorway. She gives him a brief look before jerking away, the edges of surprise all he's able to see.

He... hopes she doesn't still have a crush on him.

"Harry!" they chorus, hanging arms across shoulders. There's something fleshy looking swinging from their free hands, and Harry thinks it looks like ears. "Heard you'd arrived, old chap!"

"Wanna get filled in on all the juicy details you missed?" continues the twin on the right, which might be George, and shakes his hand full of strings when Harry nods, avoiding Hermione's eyes. "Good thing you've got us then, eh?"

 

 

 

 

Hermione mouths _Later_ as they all file out, and it's just like her, stubborn to a fault. The boy gives her a wane smile, and a quick nod, but makes it a point to have a few of the Weasleys between him and her anyway. He's still, still  _sore._ Tired, most of all, but the anger is fading a bit, at least the bit aimed at Ron and Hermione. Ugh. A headache is starting to form, either the pillow strip is too tight or, or. 

 _Not here,_ he thinks, a little miserable, as the ear is slowly lowered down.

 

 

 

 

"... _He's not a child, Molly..._ "

"...  _But he's not an adult either..._ "

 

 

Harry doesn't think they're wrong. He's never felt like a child, too old, too exhausted, but never an adult either. Everyone else is always making decisions for him, even when he's done things as a child he should never have been in the situations int he first place. He sees that now, when he'd felt responsible at eleven, twelve, thirteenth, fourteen. Harry doesn't want to be responsible anymore. But.

 

_Kill the spare._

 

That's his fault, he's responsible, and. Oh  _ice mice,_ there are tears burning unshed, building at the edges of his eyes. No one can see,  _Merlin,_ and he tucks his head away for a moment, presses a hand across his eyes, but then Crookshanks is down below, and the ear is ripped off. Then dinner, then the Order of the Phoenix, then  _Dumbledore,_ and Fudge.  _Voldemort._

Harry blusters, demands, wants the information they won't give him, even as he really doesn't.

 

 

 

 _Tell me!_  he screams, but no one does. 

 

 

 


	7. interlude pt. 2: god is flawed

It's late, the Black home silent as the grave, and the few gathered Order members quietly make their way home for the night.

"Dumbledore, I need a word with you."

"Sorry, old friend, but I really must be off. I need to make preparations for the trial tomorrow, you understand."

The old man is gone in a flare of green fire nary a glance back, leaves Moody without the last word, frowning. "Potter's hiding something," he growls to the empty floo, and grabs himself a handful of powder.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He forgets all about it by morning.


	8. kangaroo court

Hermione does not get later, and is instead booted from their room by Mrs. Weasley for lights out. But, before he falls asleep, Ron whispers to him that they're sorry, that they didn't write at Dumbledore's request, that they really wanted to, but everyone, well, all the adults anyway, thought he needed space after—y'know. After last term.

Harry forgives him, forgives Hermione, and anyone else. There's not much use to hold a grudge, not for this. "It's okay," he tells Ron, even as he doesn't think it was, is.

It keeps him up most of the night, a niggling and festering feeling. Ron's snoring doesn't help, mind, but it's not the worst of things by any stretch. Harry lays in the dark, lets it drown out Cedric's silence, and falls asleep at some point, hair still pulled back. _I_ _n, out._

 

 

He wakes up to Mr. Weasley and black hair in his face. Fear sends him scrambling up and back against the wall adjacent to his bed, heart thumping hard, ribs aching with the sudden terror.

 

 

 _This is it,_ he despairs, arms trembling. But, the man only gives him a concerned look and draws back his hand, like he can't see the short horns parting his bangs, eyes only on his face.

"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you, Harry," Arthur apologizes, quietly, and though he seems a little angry, the wizard takes a step back. Maybe not angry at him, then. "We've to leave early to make your hearing on time."

It takes a moment, and Mr. Weasley is nearly ready to turn and leave after Harry bobs his head, when the poor thing manages to work up the words. "W-Wait, uh, Mr. Weasley," Harry starts, and hesitates as he looks back, curious. _In for a penny, in for a pound._ "Is... Is there anything wrong with my face?"

His brown eyes narrow, confused, but seem to do a quick scan of Harry as a whole anyway. "No, I don't see anything," he says, and _Harry's_ confused. "The loo's got a mirror, I'm sure it could help you out more than me, though."

It actually does, when he asks it.

"You've got a lovely face, dear," it says, cheery for so early in the morning. It's kind of out of place in such a dreary home, if he's honest. "Don't listen to anyone if they say otherwise. Though, your hair is a right mess, but I think I see a slight curl to the ends. Might want to see how that goes, yeah?"

He takes it into consideration, sort of. It'd give him an ongoing excuse to cover up his forehead anyway, he thinks, blinks blearily at his reflection.

Harry traces his scar, presses softly at the raised pale skin as it branches out and down toward his nose in erratic bursts, and sighs.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

"They've changed the time of your hearing," says Kingsley, irritated. He's one of the men from the night before, and seems to still be on Harry's side of the matter at least. "It's in five minutes, you'd better hurry."

Harry's beginning to really not like the Minister, not at all.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The trial is a complete farce, and anger boils just under Harry's skin at how easily he could have been expelled, then and there, if they'd had their way and Mrs. Figg had been just the least bit less magical. A pack of liars, up on their thrones, Harry sees. Cowards looking to save their own skins and money pouches. Well, most of them anyway. An older woman side eyes her contemporaries as she counts the vote that dismisses his case.

 _Thank you,_ he tries to say, and maybe she gets it, face softening as he stands.

Dumbledore manages to elude Harry, in the end, slipping out before he can so much as call out his name. He doesn't know what he's done to warrant such a cold shoulder, and wishes he could apologize for what ever it is.

Why does no one want to tell him anything?

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Hermione corners him right after dinner and a long day of cleaning, Ron suspiciously absent. He thinks she might have set Fred and George on him, wonders briefly what she'll owe them for it. Harry's tired, and although he knows Hermione's banking on that, the past twenty four hours could have gone a lot better; he's never wanted to see Mrs. Weasley like he did today.

 

 

 

Never wanted to know what Ron looks like dead _dead **dead.**_

 

 

 

 _I really hate boggarts,_ he muses as Hermione shuts the door to the room.

"Listen, I don't know what this all about," he says, lies, and tries to look truthful. By her unimpressed face, Harry doesn't think she buys it, so he sits on a recently de-hexed couch, resigned. Lets her have the upper ground, if you will. Such a polite boy.

She frowns, and gives another one of those really hot breaths. It doesn't smell or anything, maybe a faint hint of hot pavement, but the boy figures his friend doesn't know she's doing it. It reminds him of the time she set Snape on fire, and the memory makes him feel a little better. Good times, good times.

"I really think you do," she counters, and she's staring at his forehead again, dark brown eyes narrowed. "I can almost see something, at your temples? It's hazy, my eyes slide right off if I'm not careful, and I keep forgetting, so I think you know since you've—" Here she waves a hand over her own forehead,"—y'know, done something. _Somehow._ "

He really, really hasn't, and Harry sees her trap. Tell her now, or be caught in another lie, and end up having to tell her anyway. Hermione's persistent like that. Terribly smart.

Harry looks down at his hands, laces together his fingers. _In, out._ "I can't really help with the seeing part," he admits, and thinks of this moment like ripping off a band-aid. Better to do it quick, not draw it out. "It seems to have come along with the... the horns."

There's a beat.

"... Horns?" she echoes, a little breathless, but not all together disbelieving.


	9. interlude pt.3: strike (me) down with all of your hatred

It is the unholy offspring of an eldritch horror, and a resentful but beautiful naga. It is, perhaps, the first true Demon.

 

 

 

L'dhabol sacrifices much to exist on their same plane, to be contained, tangible to their raking hands. So many wings, the feel of the universe's currents along its own sinuous body. Kanjalochana spits curses like a downpour, scales glimmering like jewels, and does not dwell on what, they too, lose.

The child is a solid smokey grey, like the sky dark overcast and looming fog. It has small pitch spikes for horns, so very bright and clear eyes, and ink black hair. At least at first, anyway.

Curiously, it has legs with clawed, soft toes, two extra arms with pudgy hands, and a prehensile whip of a tail. No wings, sad to say. Though it is terribly clever, it is but a babe, and so Magick is quick to its defense and needs. The same cannot be said of its parents; it is all too easy for them to forget that the small creature exists, occupied themselves with their own whirling dance.

 

 

 

It's a good thing, in the end.

 

 

 

The babe never receives a name because, not very far into the future at all for those like them, the two will lose their child and each other to Mud Men and their fear.

L'dhabol will lose physicality, a hold on this plane, and bleed ichor, stardust and fears into the world. It will die with the echoing screams of Kanjalochana in its soul, alone and withering in a dimension of glittering and cruel crystal.

Kanjalochana will die in a twist of sparks, fangs bared, and curse settling like a noose on those whose swords cleave their flesh from bone.

Both are good deaths, oh yes.

 

 

 

 

Monsters slain, the Mud Men find themselves left dead kin and a baby. Dark of skin like their own, and wailing lungs, blunted feet and two swinging hands, but no horns. No horns or otherworldly bits at all, no sir. They are fool creatures, however, proven time and time again, and believe it a snatched human babe. They take it home, just not for long.

Life is a strange whirlwind of revolving hands for the child, after. It is perhaps three of the Mud Men's years before it is allowed to settle, Magick letting it rest, safe at last. Potluri is the family, fledgling merchants along what one day the world will call a Road of Silk.

They will name the child Panna, for her dazzling green eyes.

The rest is History, as they say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kanjalochana - Lotus eyed god  
> Panna - Emerald  
> L'dhabol - (from a name generator)


	10. does the dog die

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i accidentally skipped a chapter,,, so,,,

Break ends, really too soon. There are hugs and reminders, maybe a few tears because _Merlin you've all gotten so big!_ Fred and George promise their mother a toliet, for all times sake, and Ginny fakes a few tears. They never did send her one, and she'd even been promised one first. It's good to laugh at the twins' suspicious but startled faces.

 

 

They're almost at the station when there's a snuffle at Harry's leg, and he looks down into shiny dark eyes. "Padfoot?" he says, and he's reaching for his godfather with a grin, fingers crooked to scratch his ears.

It dims a little when the dog leans back and away instead, nose working and ears twitching. _Shh, shh._

"Sirius!" someone hisses, and then the moment's gone as everyone crowds closer. The dog huffs, tail flopping rebelliously to the unimpressed stares, tongue lolling.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

A good dog, a very good dog, indeed.


	11. lights, camera, action

The train is nearly to Hogwarts when Harry wakes up, weirdly alert, and with Hermione a pillow of black hair and warmth against his shoulder. Ron's laid out in the opposite seat, and snoring softly for once. Though, that may have to do with how his face is pushed into the seat, but Harry's not complaining.

They haven't told him yet. Not sure how, exactly, and Harry feels a little guilty about it. He doesn't want to keep secrets like these from his best friends if he doesn't have to. They could just blurt it all out, but that's more likely to freak Ron out more than anything.

He shifts, and an annoyed, " _M_ _rrah,"_ comes from his lap where his right hand is tangled in bedraggled fur. Crookshanks picks his head up and gives Harry a squinty eyed look, whiskers twitching. It's a little sad that the unhesitating way the half-kneazle had claimed his legs for his resting place had made Harry's eyes burn.

 

 

 

Whatever's happening to him can't be all that bad if Crookshanks still likes him.

 

 

 

Carefully wiggling his arm free from its trapped space by the window, he reaches for his temple, hair free of any band. The curve of the horn is little longer now, not by much, but he can tell. Harry traces it upward for a moment, feeling the little grooves and bumps, and pricks his finger on the tip.

"Ow," he hisses, snatches the wounded digit back, and sticks it into his mouth.

Hermione makes a noise at his side then, stretches, nearly like he's seen Crookshanks do after a nap, for one long moment. She shoots upright in the next, eyes wide, and the book hanging precariously in her lap falls to the floor with a dull _thump_.

"Oh! Are we almost there? Did I really sleep the rest of the ride away?" she squeaks, scrambling for the book, and looking over at Ron. Hermione makes a face at him. "Git, he was supposed to keep watch."

"Just about," Harry confirms, and rubs the fur along Crookshank's spine, streaks the spit from his finger on his pants. "We switched, so don't be mad at him, I fell asleep on watch."

She narrows her eyes at Harry, and he gives her a small smile. "Guess we could be so lucky this is the year Malfoy keeps his distance, at least on the train, anyway," Hermione grumbles.

"You'll jinx us like that 'Mione," he teases, and gets the book to his recently vacated shoulder, Crookshanks abandoning his lap. "Ow! Ow, okay!" 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

"I'm surprised the Ministry's still letting you walk around free," comes Malfoy's voice from behind, and Harry stifles a grunt as Hermione elbows him. Okay, okay, he's learned his lesson. "Better enjoy it while you can. I expect there's a cell in Azkaban with your name on it," he continues, sneering as he passes, only not.

Harry's blindsided as the taller boy pushes closer, aggressive and provoking, so it's really not his fault he jerks his head in surprise, in anger, and.

 

 

 

Opens up a clean and bloody line across his pale face, lip to cheek.

 

 

 

No one outside them has noticed, but it's like time slows in that moment. Malfoy stumbles back a few steps, hand flying to his face, smearing it with blood, and his eyes are wide. Crabbe and Goyle have only just noticed he's not right with them, so Harry, Hermione, and Ron are the only three to see the wariness enter Malfoy's eyes, tinged with shock, and flickering forced from side to side of his forehead.

The boy turns on his heel and leaves without another word, his two minions stumbling to an about face and trailing after him.

"Um, Harry?" Ron starts, and from Harry's side he's looking a little higher than his face. "There's a—"

Hermione descends on him with an elbow, easily cutting him off, and has the sleeve of her jumper wrapped over her hand as she reaches for the bloodied horn. "Shut up, Ron!" she hisses, looking around. People are beginning to stare, if only because they're blocking the walkway. "We'll tell you later, alright?"

His face is slightly red, but Ron nods as he rubs his abused ribs, clearly feeling betrayed. Everything feels really hot and humid suddenly, and Harry puts a hand over his eyes as Hermione draws away.

Great.

 

 

  

* * *

 

 

 

 

Neville appears at their side while they're waiting on the next carriage. He's got a strange looking plant under his arm, and his welcome is a little more lackluster because it kinda scares Harry to be honest, heart fluttering helplessly at its thorns, but.

 

A hot breath blows over his ear, and he whirls around, green eyes wide.

 

It's a horse, but really not. Deathly skinny and a pitch, leathery looking black, it knickers much like he'd _figure_ a horse. Reaching closer, its sharp beak noses at his hair with flared nostrils. At his horns. It nudges his face before Harry manages to find his words.

"What's this then?" he says, somewhat weak but relieved as it takes a step back. Milk white eyes blink at him slowly, and it tilts its head something like W _ho? Me?_

"What's what, mate?" grumbles Ron, and probably turns around. Out of the corner of his eyes, Harry thinks his best mate nearly falls to the ground in fright. "S-Shite! What the bloody hell is t-that?"

"Goodness, Ronald! Language," Hermione admonishes, but she does trail off at the end. A pause."Though... Neville, do you see what I see? Dark shadows?"

"I don't?" he says, and sounds completely lost.

Only, a girl is there too, already sitting in the carriage. Her blue eyes focus eerily on each of them in turn as they sidle around the side. "It's okay," she says by way of hello, and completely lowers the upside down magazine in her hands. "I can see them too, they're real."

Harry doesn't think he imagines the pinched look to Hermione's face as they all pile in, hyper-aware of the possible people-eater pulling their ride himself. There's an awkward and quiet moment before she bulldozes through it, exasperated with the lot of them, probably. "Everyone, this is Luna Lovegood," Hermione says, and not entirely like she wants to.

Luna seems to preen anyway, faintly amused. "Hello," she finally says, more genuinely than any one stranger ever really has to Harry, and blinks curiously at them. "You're all very pretty."

She makes Harry think of rainbows birthed through prisms, and the wind in his hair, laughter easily carried away. 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

" _... Professor Grubbly-Plank, who'll be taking over Care of Magical Creatures while Professor Hagrid is on temporary leave. We also wish to welcome our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Dolores Umbridge. I'm sure you'll all join me in wishing the professor good luck._ "

The Hall gives a smattering of claps, but Harry finds he can't quite bring himself to join in.

Her coloring is offensive, downright impolite. The woman is dangerous, but not in the right way, in the way that matters, whatever that is, and Harry figures if he grows fangs and a hankering for human flesh, she'd be his first meal because he absolutely remembers her face.

"You alright there, Harry?" and it's Dean, a friendly face. One of few, if the eyes and means faces boring into him from all across the Great Hall are any indication. "Have a good summer?"

The boy's smile is weak, rightfully so. "Not really, you?" Harry says, and then he sees Seamus, his pale face dark and thunderous.

It's going to be one long year, he can tell.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poor thing doesn't know the half of it.


	12. interlude pt. 4: butter or salt, chili powder or cardamon

It's a slow day, and Lily's yet to figure exactly what she'd like to eat for dinner. It's a bit of a conundrum. There's so many things, and what exactly does she want anyway?

She slants her husband a look, and he arches an eyebrow in response, placing their dishes in the sink slowly. "What foods do you miss?" she asks, honestly curious. He's not the best at cooking, and he's only ever made English food for her, but he does his best. It's all she can ask for. "From home, I mean."

He gives her a fond look. "Meethi Kadhi," James tells her, wistful. The man has gone a long time without any food from home. He misses it something fierce, some days. "Puran Poli, especially."

"James, I asked because I don't know what any of those are," she laughs, hand rubbing soft along her stomach. Which is a wild thought unto itself really. It makes her feel a little bad; all this time and now she asks.

He ducks his head, smiling. Better late than never, he believes. "Right, right," James concedes, and sets lunch's dishes to cleaning themselves. "Well, Puran Poli's a flatbread, and filled with lentils cooked in this type of sugar stuff called jaggery. It's really good, though it's mainly for Diwali, and with everything going on..." He shakes his head, sighs. "I haven't had it in a long time."

"When's that again?"

Thinking for a moment, he taps his wand against his forehead, and hums. "Mm, I think it's October this year," he says, and chuckles at her pouting face.

"That's months and months away," she complains, flopping her head back on the couch. A pause. Lily picks her head back up, squints. "Though, it could give you enough time to learn how to make it. I'm sure Hari will like it."

"Harini," he counters, playful.

Lily shakes her head. "No," she sniffs, eyeing him as he chuckles at her. "If it's a girl, we're not naming her that, I asked around, you know; I know what it means now!"

James joins her on the couch then, grinning. He throws an arm over her shoulder and curls it around her back as she turns toward him, red hair spilling over it and between his fingers. "Can't get anything past you, can I? Just like when you were prefect, huh?"

She doesn't answer for a moment. "Yeah," Lily says, eventually, though it's quiet, and she pulls her self closer. It's harder for her to remember such memories as fondly sometimes.

The two sit in silence for a little while, content to hold each other for now.

"How about I tell you my name, hm?" James whispers, conspiratorial-like, once enough seconds have languished by, and as if he has not done so before. "Would you like that?"

There's no verbal reply, but the woman nods her head, face pressed to his chest. She might be crying, still and quiet. The world is terribly cruel, and Lily hates it, he knows. He does too.

 

 

 

 

Pressing a kiss to her hair, the man says," _Jaimesh-mitra Potdar,_ " and tries to find strength where there will be none, none whatsoever.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Love, you see, is a terrible thing. Given too freely, defended too fiercely, and infected all too easily. Warped beyond its intended fate. Used to end horrible things. The road to Hell is paved with good intentions, they say.

Such can get lost in translation, and sometimes, sometimes people just don't care.

Petunia will be a jealous and spiteful woman, forever and always grieving, and keep from an orphaned baby his own name, viciously and purposely.

She will do many more things, and sleep perfectly fine for it, yes she will.

 

 

 

But neither will she be the only one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaimesh-mitra - unknown-oath, friendship, (eye of, light of) the morning sun
> 
> Hari - sun  
> Harini - deer like


	13. (i) ain't got time to bleed

"Spill," Ron demands, arms crossed.

The common room is uncharacteristically empty and still. Hard to not know why, honestly, and it hurts; every year it's something new, and he should be _used_ to it by now but. He just can't seem to take it, forever thin-skinned; Merlin, he's pathetic. The firelight makes his friend's hair glow, and Harry wants to laugh a little hysterically. _Pathetic._

Hermione does a complicated twirl with her wand, eyes suspicious of the doors that lead up to the dorms, and Ron gives Harry a concerned look. He shrugs, tries to look nonchalant even as he swallows thickly, and shoves all the other whispering thoughts away, hopes this goes okay.

"No one can hear us now," she says, and plops down next to Harry, but keeps a little distance at a look. It's getting a little too toasty, and he wipes a hand over his forehead with a grimace. "Sorry we kept this from you, Ron."

"You'd better be!" he snaps, but looks wounded all the same. Harry tires to not feel like a terrible person, like a hypocrite. "I had to bloody learn you're both keeping secrets after Harry rips Malfoy's face clean open!"

"Didn't really," Harry grumbles, but quails under Ron's intense glare. "Honest, it's just—oh, bugger, it's weird you could see that horse thing, but not _this_."

"What is _this_?" Ron hisses, eyes flickering between them both. "There was a floatin' spot of blood! What was that?"

Hermione nudges his shoulder, and Harry follows her pointed look toward their friend's clenched hands. It feels invasive, and makes his skin crawl at the prospect, but for some reason Ron just can't _see_ his horns. Nothing's ever easy, or cares about his comfort, he knows. It'd just, you know, be nice, if just for once something or someone did.

"Can I have your hands, mate?"

Ron looks scandalized for all of the moment Hermione has to use to convince him to just go along with it. Harry's never held his hands before, or maybe he has, and just doesn't remember because they were running away from some new horror he's sure they were facing at the time. It's a just a little surprising they're so soft and warm, a very distinct contrast to his own scarred and calloused.

 

 

Too warm, Harry discovers in the next moment, Ron's fingers just curling tentatively along his horns. _Merlin's beard, too hot!_

 

 

Gasping, he jerks back, and makes to slap Ron's hands away. He just doesn't account for Ron to grip tighter out of reflex, to not move _with_ him. _Pain_ washes down his face, and the noise Harry makes is something absolutely wretched, he just knows it. Black encroaches on his vision, and the last things he hears are:

" _Ron, let go!_ "

" _Harry!_ "

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Ron's sleeping face is the first thing he wakes up to.

He's at the side of his bead, pillow in arms, and drooling a wet spot. Hermione's right next to him, hair wrapped up in a pale pink knot, face turned away. There's a heavy weight across his stomach, a low rumble, and brown eyes blink slowly as Harry looks down to Crookshanks.

"Hey Crookshanks," he croaks, a little scattered, and reaches for the half-kneazle.

Red shifts out of the corner of his eye, and he has the absolute special privilege to meet bleary blue, and watch it brighten hue in awareness. He may or may not be seeing more colors, it's really strange. _Freak._

"Harry!" Ron shouts, suddenly awake, and he scrambles up, kicking a muffled groan from Hermione. "Harry, are you alright, mate? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do whatever I did, I swear!"

Oh. Right. _Now_ he feels the pain, a pulsing throb. His horns feel raw, especially at the base, and almost like they've had an entire layer scrapped off as the briefest shift of air stings. "Shh, you'll wake the dorm," Harry mumbles instead, wincing.

"It's nearly noon, Harry," grumbles Hermione, and her head flops over. Her eyes are dark with exhaustion, and encircled with a thin ring of dusty gold. "Ron chased off everyone by breakfast... Hexed Seamus, even."

Ron looks inordinately pleased by this admission.

"Ah, thanks," Harry says, grateful, and stares at her eyes a little harder. He flutters his own eyes a few times to just, make sure. "Hermione, your eyes are being weird."

Hermione blinks. "Huh?" she squeaks, sitting up and looking vaguely alarmed, and yeah, now it's gone. Of course.

 

 

 

They help him to the loo. He really wants is a good look at his horns, to see the damage wrought. He has to blink a couple times to get his image to focus, having forgotten about his glasses, and braces his hands on either side of the sink. The porcelain is cool against his skin, and comforting, abates the festering panic.

Hermione wrings her hands anxiously off to the side, Ron loitering like a guard behind her. "I can't tell exactly how bad it is, but the magic that hid them is definitely weaker," she says, and bites her lip briefly. Hermione looks so terribly guilty in her reflection. "I should never have encouraged this, we could have found another way. I'm so sorry, Harry."

It could be permanently damaged, that is true. He'd be back to headbands full-time for sure if anymore of the magic degrades. Harry feathers a hand along a dark spike, and lines of chalky white mark perfect matches to curled fingers. The bases are inflamed too, a reddish grey, but there's nothing for it. Can't go to Madam Pomfrey, now can he?

"I'll be fine," Harry says, and the boy looking back at him from the mirror looks like a stranger. This is why he doesn't look all that often. Best to ignore it. _Freak._

"I still think," Hermione starts after a moment, reflected eyes challenging, "that we should go to Dumbledore, maybe he can—"

"I'll be _fine_ ," Harry repeats, firm, and slants her a blank look, holds it.

Ron makes a nervous noise, and Hermione looks away first, glares at the floor.

He'll be fine. He has to be.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Magick has and will always care for its own, but even it has its limits. Those blissfully unaware and ignorant of its beating heart will have to tread alone.


	14. understudy

History Magic is History of Magic. Not much to write home about, hah.

Malfoy is quiet, face healed up quite nicely, but Harry is nearing a doze so he doesn't bother to question his good luck.

That may or may not be a mistake.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Harry does, however, feel like a right dingbat thinking Potions would be even remotely okay, and holds back another sneeze. The fumes sting the vulnerable surface of his horns, and he's never found the smells nearly as strong before. Either his nose is sharper or it's just this potion; could go either way, what with his track record of poor luck.

Snape sweeps by with a sneer, but continues past to harass Ron and Dean, Seamus out from another Hex. Not actually from Ron, he thinks, though it's not helped Harry in the least being the odd one out for the period. He glances longingly at the rest of his House, everyone paired up but him. Parvati looks conflicted, smug but sorry from the looks she sends him.

 _Bugger,_ he thinks, and turns back to his potion.

 

 

Somewhere in the middle of his reprieve Harry really mucks it up, and the color turns a lurid green. A lot like his eyes in poor lighting, a lot like the light that killed Mum and Dad, killed—

 

 

He doesn't realize he's choked down an entire breath of the fumes before he's gagging, coughing so hard his ribs hurt, and trying to keep it quiet, but someone's turned him to the side. He can nearly see the shiny sheen of a bubble head charm go up in front of his eyes, unshed tears blurring the figure in front of him.

The clean air is Merlin sent, and he gasps it down, blinking quickly as to not pop the charm with his hands.

Blaise Zabini stands in front of him, face only just tinged with concern, curiosity? The tip of his wand is peeking out of a sleeve, his other hand full of ingredients. He arches an eyebrow after a moment, almost as if to say _Better?_ before continuing along like nothing had happened.

It's almost like that's true. No one else seems to have noticed, busy with their own potions and partners. Harry chances a glance after the Slytherin, and jerks away as Nott manages to catch his gaze, eyes narrowed as Zabini retakes his place at their potions bench. Maybe not everyone then.

"What exactly do you think you're doing, Mr. Potter?" comes an oily voice from behind, and Harry aborts a long suffering sigh. Back from tearing into his fellow Gryffindors, Snape looms over him, lip curled. "Well?"

"My potion, sir," he manages, and does not look away as the man gives his cauldron a brief but disgusted glance. The tables closest to him are starting to stare; everyone always seems to enjoy watching the Boy-Who-Lived get taken down a peg or two, despite a significant lack of such.

The bubbling viridian vanishes with a curt flick of Snape's wand. "Once more with feeling, Mr. Potter," he sneers. "And, thirty points from Gryffindor for using magic without permission."

There are affronted gasps from his house-mates, and a few glares, but it's nothing new. "Sorry, sir," Harry says, means it, and maybe does not imagine the flicker of surprise in the man's eyes. Snape's left the charm up when he could just have easily torn it down and left Harry to suffer, and the boy's too tired for the usual snark.

Still a little too dizzy to try and puzzle it all out, Harry just begins his potion anew as the menace of a man glides away.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

"Are you okay, Harry?" Hermione asks in the inbetween, Ron fielding a persistent Parvati and Padma.

He really doesn't want to talk to any of them right now. Not even her. "Can't see 'em, can you?" Harry deflects, and hikes his bag higher up his shoulder.

Just up ahead he sees silver and green, and if he can just—

There's a tug on his sleeve, and Harry loses sight of Zabini in the crush of the crowd. "No, really, are you alright?" she continues, nearly demanding. Harry loves her, he really does, but.

"No, Hermione, I'm really not," he snaps, and her hand drops away from his robes, scalded. Harry squashes the bitterness and regret that threatens to well up. "When have I ever been?"

She doesn't have an answer for that, surprising absolutely no one.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

"You have been told that a certain dark wizard is at large once again," the woman says, and it rankles, her condescending tone and smug face. "This is a lie."

Sickly light flashes across his eyes, and Harry takes a deep breath, fingers digging crescents into his palms. "Cedric dropped dead of his own doing, then?" he asks, near a whisper, but a shout in the quiet classroom. Her ugly brown meets his own limp green. "Are you saying I'm a liar?"

"Cedric Diggory's death was an unfortunate accident," Umbridge simpers, sticky with sympathy, but her words are entirely cruel. "But, yes, Mr. Potter, I am."

 _Am I a liar, though?_ is on the tip of his tongue, the class shifting uncomfortably around him, but a wisp of fire slips through, and then Harry's angry, boiling and roiling with it. "It was murder!" Harry ends up snarling, and he can see Hermione's horrified face out of the corner of his eye. "Voldemort killed him, and I was there! I saw him!"

 

 

"Detention, Mr. Potter," she just about purrs, eyes lit with an unholy light as the class gasps around them. "Tomorrow, an hour before dinner."

 

 

Harry grits his teeth. Of course.


	15. taking the stage

The common room isn't empty that night, but Harry is afforded a wide berth, so it might as well be. Hermione and Ron aren't back yet; Harry does not begrudge them their Prefect duties now. So, he's alone as he enters the Gryffindor common room, conversations growing hushed, and house-mates shying away.

This, unfortunately, allows Parvati to corner him.

 

 

 

" _Aap kaise hain, Hari?_ " she starts, hand latching onto the strap of his bag. He gives a half-hearted tug, and a longing glance toward the staircase leading up to his room, but Parvati doesn't let go. "Don't ignore me, please."

 

 

 

Harry really, really, wants to, and feels awful about it. "I'm getting tired of people asking me that," he says instead, and lets her drag him over to where Lavender is chatting with Demelza and Alicia. The three immediately vacate their seats when they see the two of them coming.

Lavender hisses, "You owe me one, Parva," as she passes, and Parvati gives her an absent nod. They sit before she says anything more, eyes on her hands.

"Our parents wouldn't let us write to you over the summer," she begins, and it's a kick to the teeth. He'd thought they liked him, even if only a little. "There's been talk of us not attending Hogwarts anymore. They're scared of another war, _Hari_."

 _They're scared_ , rings a little in his ears, _scared_. "They... They believe me?" Harry asks, tries to keep it neutral to belay the desperate hope that rattles his chest. It's terrible, it is, but it would mean something like the _world—_

 

 

 

 

Parvati looks up, brown eyes sad. "We do," she whispers, gives him a weak smile, "by Gita, we do, _Hari_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aap kaise hain, Hari? - How are you, Hari (Harry)?


	16. to the pain

Herbology is nuts. The shy plant that's always sat in the corner hisses at Harry, tries to take a bite out of him as he passes, and a half dozen others rustle in warning. Neville gives them a bewildered look, and Harry tries to ignore the other boy's and Professor Sprout's considering glances.

Ron fares not an ounce better, so that helps, really.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Detention is upon him all too soon.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The kittens along the walls bristle, their gleaming teeth needle sharp, and Harry hesitates at the doorway.

"Good Evening, Mr. Potter," Umbridge says, though she looks torn between frowning at the constructs and smirking. "Have a seat, you're going to write lines for me today."

He does, entering fully before dropping his bag against the floor and legs of the desk with care, wary. Harry's just pulling out his quills and ink when her own desk rattles with the closing of a drawer, and he looks up.

A black quill is pulled from a smooth, wooden case, and Umbridge gives him an ugly smile. "No, not with your quill," she starts, and stands from her chair. His skin crawls as she comes around to place it on his desk. "You're going to be using a rather special one of mine."

Ominous. Though, he picks up the quill, and as she wanders behind him, nearly drops it. If by special she meant prickly, he can see that now. Whatever it did, it's almost like a physical ache, but when he looks at his other hand, nothing is there. The feeling fades, but Harry shifts, suddenly anxious.

"Now," she continues, and _Merlin_ he hates her voice, "I want you to write, 'I must not tell lies,' as many times as it takes for the message to sink in."

It's not funny, but Harry wants to laugh. "You haven't given me any ink?" he asks instead, and really, she's hilarious because—

 

 

 

Nothing happens the first fifteen lines, and he's gotten into a groove with it by then, his anxiety growing complacent. _This isn't so bad,_ is barely across his mind before the first curling loop cuts deep into his idle hand, sharp fangs and claws.

Harry almost stops and chucks it across the room, an aborted scream choked halfway up his throat. Horrified, he stares at the familiar cursive sinking bloody into his skin, peeling it a fresh and vivid pink. _It hurts, it hurts_ —

"Yes?" comes from behind him, terribly close, and dripping satisfaction.

He does not reply, and only shakes his head, afraid of what might slip his tongue if he speaks now. The pain is an agonizing throb, and it carves deeper and deeper still. If this is for such a minor offense of 'lying', then Harry really does not want to find out what entails if he screams and yells. If he cries.

"That's right," the woman says as he touches quill tip back to parchment, trembling. "Because you know, deep down, that you deserve to be punished. Don't you, Mr. Potter?"

 _In,_ _out. In, out._

 

 

 

 

It's nearly dinner, he thinks, when she calls him to a stop, and picks up his hand between two fingers. It's so numb with pain that Harry's sure that if he wasn't looking at it, he wouldn't have even noticed.

"Hm, I don't think it's sunk in quite enough," Umbridge says, turning it this way and that, and sounds as if it makes _her_ sad. Harry just wants to crawl away and die in a hole, _it hurts, it hurts_ —"Three more detentions ought to do it, don't you think?" She lets his hand go, and plucks the quill from his other. "You may go. Same time, Mr. Potter."

He's barely gathered his things, stumbled over her threshold, before he's running.


	17. interlude pt. 5: aggressive categorism failure

Dolores watches the boy go, a delighted smile to her lips, and closes the door behind his fleeing figure with a flick of her wand.

"Pink, pink," she muses to herself, and sits down back at her desk. "I never would have believed it."

With a small chuckle, she studies the quill, smooths its black vane. It is a masterful work of craftsmanship, if she does say so herself, worth every sickle for production, and the woman absolutely adores it. No mess, and so inconspicuous and easy to use. The delay... is unfortunate, but the result is just as appreciated.

"No matter," she murmurs, and reaches for its case. Six more lay still and pristine within.

 

 

 

 

When the locking ward on the quill's box clicks shut, it snaps a fledgling thread of magic drifting further and further away. In another world, it would have withered and died, and left a searching hunger, sated only by repeated and familiar use.

 

 

 

Here, however, it flails, and frayed ends brush against looming bright rage.

 

 

 

 

The abomination that dares call herself pure of blood does not see it coming.


	18. audition recast

Luna is coming down to dinner late, having searched fruitlessly for her socks for much too long. Despite all the magic, the floors are still quite cold, even through the soles of her shoes. The nargels are having a right laugh, she figures, the little blighters.

So, here Luna is, coming down to dinner late, very much so that when turning a corner she's carried right off her feet and to the floor. It hurts a lot, the hard stone unforgiving, but only the loosest pieces of her are marred by the rough ground in the end.

 

 

 

"Harry Potter?" she asks after a moment, when the arms around her fall away and she can push herself back up, scraped palms stinging.

 

 

 

The boy is nearly still under her, chest heaving beneath his robes. Glasses gone, she can see the gloss to his unfocused eyes, and with his hair splayed away, his forehead and horns. She feels a slight pang the ropy scars of white twisting around the spikes, the crawling branches reaching his nose, so up close.

As gently as she can, Luna picks herself up, foot crumpling one of many scattered papers. Harry Potter does not say a word, breaths a whistling sound of pain now. "My hero," she murmurs, a little sad, and looks around.

Back the way she came, the staircase is swinging back to position and down it comes her fellow Ravenclaw and her Gryffindor sister. Padma Patil sees her first, face going dismayed. She's nearly yanked her sister back around when her twin of red and yellow drags her to a stop, eyes going wide.

"Harry!"

They're upon her like wolves then, eyes fierce. Padma Patil keeps straight for Harry Potter, while the other fists Luna's robes, wand tip a blurry dot before her face.

"What did you do to him?" Parvati Patil hisses, and Luna's forced to tip her head back.

"We collided about here," Luna says. "He was going awful fast; I didn't see him coming. He took the brunt of the fall, even."

There's a grunt from behind, and a muffled squeal of pain. "We've got to get him to Madam Pomfrey, right now," Padma Patil hisses, and her sister glares at Luna one more time before pushing past, spinning the girl around with the force of her shoulder.

Harry Potter takes that moment to come alive, gasping. He slips from Ravenclaw's shoulder, and his knees make a nasty noise as he hits the floor, left hand cradled to his chest and leaking darkness.

"No," he whimpers, folding at the waist, "no Hospital Wing."

Luna sees and knows why, but the twins do not, grappling with his hunched body in their attempt to pick him up. "I have an alternative," she says softly, and oh, if looks could _kill_. "It's about as good as Madam Pomfrey, but none of you will like it."

"We're not taking him to some shady person you know, Looney," Padma Patil spits, and makes to take a step in the direction Luna is sure Harry Potter's deeply familiar with. He tries to jerk from their hands, manages to actually, and takes a few stumbling steps toward the staircase.

" _Haasyaaspad ja raha band karo, Hari!_ " one of them snarls, and they both manhandle him back the few paces he'd managed.

"He's highly qualified," Luna continues, and her knees are starting to smart horrible like now. Their history is bad, but she thinks he will put it aside, this once. "Good at keeping secrets too."

Parvati Patil still looks completely suspicious, but Padma Patil falters, Harry Potter a near dead weight between them. "How far?" she asks, and her sister gapes at her, betrayed.

Giving them a weak smile, Luna closes the distance separating them. "Not very," she promises, and sticks out her hand, wiggling the fingers invitingly despite the bloody and raw skin. Her other hand reaches for the dirigible plum hanging quietly on her right ear. "Hold on to my hand, please."

 

 

 

It's a hook behind her navel as Patil grabs her hand, _wingardium leviosa_ , and then they're spilling to the floor, the lights nearly all gone. Luna sits up gingerly among the groaning, and glances around the darkness.

"He'll be any minute now," she says.

"Lovegood, where—"

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The next fall knocks the tears out of him. It's dark, and Harry's vague of mind to be glad enough no one can see. They've all seen him at his worst enough, he thinks.

There's a flare of light, and it's bright even through his eyelids. He curls tighter, his hand the center of his universe right now, hot and throbbing. Everything else hurts too, and a flash of pale gold flutters across his mind's eye. _Lovegood?_

" _Lovegood, are you alright you daft thing of a girl?_ " comes a snarling voice, and two following shrieks. Light. " _Lovegood!_ "

" _Harry Potter has had a right fright of a night, I think, Professor,_ " comes a soft and serene voice, like clinking glass and thick spider webs.

Footsteps, some scrambling, a few even. " _Do I bloody well look like the Hospital wing, girl? What_ — _"_

A pause, long and blessed. Harry's ears are ringing, water running through pipes, and he cannot stifle the next whimper.

" _I see._ "

_Do you?_ he thinks, curling tighter, and it's the last thing before the stress is too much. _Do you?_

 

 

 

 

 

" _I do, Mr. Potter, I, unfortunately, do._ "


	19. interlude pt. 6: the devil in plain sight

It is 1981, and Severus almost misses the boy amongst the nervous crowd of first years.

Potter is tiny even surrounded by his peers, untidy black hair, and brown skin. He looks just like his _father,_ and the thought makes the man's lip curl before he can stop it. Anger curls lazy under his skin, and Severus grits his teeth, exhales slowly.

 

 

 

_Haven't you learned anything?_

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

He feels victorious, as if he has won some great triumph, and it's like a warm and vibrant heat but oily and languid. Pleased, and smug, to have hurt someone else, to cause them pain in a measure equal as he has felt. But.

It only takes for horror to wash cross her face, green eyes glittering, to snuff it out like a candle wick to a breeze, to fill him with ice and dread. No, he didn't—he'd never meant— _Merlin_ —

"I n-never meant to call you Mudblood, it just—" he starts, and takes a step closer. Severus's heart flops in despair as she matches him backward. Oh _God, I never meant to go this far._

"What? It just slipped out?" Lily snaps, and there are tears in her eyes. "I've made excuses for you for years. None of my friends can understand why I even talk to you." She backs further away, and then her wand is in her hand, tip down. Severus flinches, fingers curling to fists. "You and your precious little Death Eater friends. Did you pick that up from them? Or have you always thought that way?"

 

 

 _Please, please, I didn't mean it. I didn't mean to call you or Potter that._ "Lily, I—"

 

 

"It doesn't matter," she sneers, and it cuts deep, the words like blades. Lily learned that from him, spent nearly a summer making funny faces, but so, so determined to figure it out. The memory falls to pieces, and Severus takes a step back of his own. "You've chosen your way, and I've chosen mine."

Lily leaves, and Severus watches her go, tugging along a stunned Potter and murderous Black.

 

 

 

 

 

The common room that night will be rife with considering and almost _proud_ looks. Malfoy will give him an encouraging smirk, but Avery will shake Severus's hand from his robe sleeve, eyes glistening with mistrust and anger.

 _I'm sorry,_ is what he wants to say, the words dying before his lips. Rosier, Wilkes, and Lestrange cluster in after he leaves, but it does not fill the gaping hole in his chest. 

 

 

 

_I'm so sorry._

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Severus will never get to apologize to any of them. Not to Lily, to Potter. He knows he would not have deserved their forgiveness. Avery will get his revenge many times over, and it will be hard to watch him stumble and fall, and.

 

 

_Haven't you learned anything?_

 

 

Potter is small, too tiny, and easy pickings for all sorts of bullies. Avery would have singled him out on principle, and plenty will in the Dark Lord's place for now.

Severus aborts a very long and suffered sigh, though Flitwick gives him amused look out of the corner of his eye.  _Don't be Slytherin,_  he thinks because there is a glint to the child's eyes from the torchlight, and it will be hard enough as it is.

_Don't be Slytherin._


	20. yank the (dog's) chain

" _Out! Out! I vow you won't find him pickled in my potion stores, so begone, or I'll take fifty points from you each!"_

 

 

A door slams, and Severus Snape stalks back after a long moment, robes billowing. Luna thinks it's all very dramatic and nice, but she thinks he could do with a little more flare than whip and coil. He didn't appreciate her advise last time, so she'll just keep it to herself for now.

"Explain, Ms. Lovegood," he demands, and in his hands he has bottles and vials of a number of colors. He sets them down on the table next to her chair, gives her an expectant look.

"Well," Luna starts, and only blinks a little more quickly as an essence of blue is dripped onto her raw knees, pants legs split and flopping uselessly up to her thigh. The pain lessens considerably. "I was late to dinner, looking for my socks too long, you see, and Harry Potter ran right into me. I don't think he saw me, but he took most of fall."

More blue is dribbled into her hands, and she dabs them gently on her elbows before rubbing them together. It's maybe a little sad this is all routine by now, Luna's not exactly sure.

"That's it?" he says as he draws away, disbelief coloring his words a dead grey brown.

"That's all I was present for," she admits, and watches as Severus Snape tips something red and thick down Harry Potter's throat. "Padma and her sister happened over us. They wanted to take him to the Hospital Wing."

"And yet, here we are," the man sneers, "in my personal quarters."

Luna nods, and brushes back a stray strand of hair. "He insisted we not."

The man reaches for Harry Potter's hand then. She doesn't know exactly what _he_ sees, but all she sees is decaying black. It isn't letting the skin or muscle heal, and it's a dreadful type of magic, she can tell.

"Ever spoiled, the Boy-Who-Lived," he growls, and when he turns the limp hand, Luna can just make out _I must not tell lies_ in pink looping letters. "More pity to the fool who did this."

"Will it scar?" she asks.

"It may yet," is his answer, along with with a glob of hissing purple smeared across the sinking wound.

 

 

A beat. Then—

 

 

Harry Potter jerks awake with a scream, and Luna startles in her seat. He snatches his hand from Severus Snape, and rolls off the bed, taking half the blankets with him. The man curses as sticky purple is spilled over his robes, does an ungraceful hop and stumble from his chair.

Luna slowly stands, testing her pains, swallows against the suffering that permeates the the room. She makes her way to the boy trembling on the cold, hard floor, and thinks maybe the world is just too cruel.

Crouching by his feet, she doesn't reach out for him, keeps her hands on her knees. "It's alright," she says over a snarled banishing spell. "It's just to help. You're safe here."

He doesn't answer.

Except, maybe he does. Harry Potter is sobbing now, choked and quiet, a mass of quivering covers.

"My hero," she repeats, a whisper, and lets him cry.

_In, out._

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Harry wakes to darkness, a _lumos_ coming to light. It blinds him, and he groans, throwing his arm over his face and turning away.

"Five more minutes," he mumbles, rooting back under the blanket. His bones are lead, skin layers of brick; he's really tired, and just wants the day to pass into the next.

A growl, and Harry stiffens. "Much as I like to relinquish my own bed to the wizarding world's golden boy, you cannot stay all night, Mr. Potter."

 _Snape._ The boy shoots up, aches flaring with pain, and hand fumbling for his pocket. His wand isn't there. His wand isn't _there. Where is my wand?_

"Night stand, to your right."

Heart racing, Harry gropes for it, everything indistinct and blurry. The wood under his palm is a spark of relief, and he grips it tight, brandishes it at the light.

"W-What are you doing? Where a-am I?" he tries to bluster, blinking against the white light. "What—"

"Trying to get you back to your own bloody bed, and in my quarters," Snape sneers, and the wand is lowered. Harry can almost make out the git's face. "Please, waste more of my time, Mr. Potter. Unless, of course, you wish to inform me where exactly you received that curse scar on your hand from?"

 _Scar?_ he thinks, and looks down. Harry can't see it, but the lingering malice is a faint and curling scent. _Detention. Umbridge._ "Nowhere," he croaks abruptly, and then wants to smack himself or possibly leap off the Astronomy tower in mortification. He's told better lies at four years old,  _Merlin._

" _Nowhere_ ," is echoed faintly in disbelief, and Snape gives a nasty laugh. "Nowhere, he says. Well, here is my ultimatum for you then, Mr. Potter: You tell me now, and I go to the Headmaster first thing in the morning, or you don't, and I drag you squalling to his office right now."

Harry almost wants Snape to drag him kicking and screaming to the Headmaster's office, but the anger and spite are weak fumes. Exhaustion fills his bones at the prospect, dread squeezing into the spaces left. Sugar Quills, he's _tired_.

"Turn on the lights," he says instead, "please."

They flicker on without a single wand flick. Blinking the spots from his eyes, Harry drops them back to his hand. There's a shiny sheen to the spot, healthier looking and more warm toned than the otherwise dull brown surrounding it. _I must not tell lies_ is blurry but faded and light beige, like it's been years already, but.

It's still really, really easy to see.

Harry swallows, and tears burn unshed across his eyes as he flexes the fingers.

"Well?"

Morning. Morning, yes. He'd like a bit more sleep.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The Fat Lady swings shut with a huff, but under his glare, she settles back to sleep far more quickly than she otherwise would.

"Fool child," he growls to himself, grip on his wand bruising and ripe with anger. _Umbridge._

It is quite convenient that she would be 'attacked' right in the middle of dinner. The Headmaster flooing and accompanying her personally from Hogwarts. It's quite a grievous crime to attack a teacher, after all. Quite a coincidence, indeed.

 _I'll see her end,_ Severus thinks, and turns.

 

 

The darkness of the hall swallows him up as he stalks away, and gnaws half-heartedly at his memories, second by second.

 

 

Daylight will break weak through the water outside his window, and illuminate the small tumbler of firewhiskey sitting dejected by his chair. The bottle will be dashed pieces of glass and spilt amber across the floor. It is easy to imagine any manner of purpose for his forgotten anger, any reason at all.

In a vial that waits in trembling shadow, sits his lost hours. A boy cries in it, is hurt in it.

 

 

 

 

Severus Snape does not remember this come morning sun.


	21. interlude pt. 7: supporting

It's all very surreal, Parvati thinks, to still be alive even though they'd crashed into Professor Snape's personal quarters and mucked up his furniture while they were at it. She kinda needs a moment.

" _Well_ ," starts her sister, short of breath, " _no one would believe us anyway, would they?_ "

No. They wouldn't. Not that they'd have told anyone, save a teacher, but they've already kind've done that? Parvati tries to swallow back her worry, settle how sick she feels.

" _Did... Did you see_ _Hari's hand?_ " she asks, and looks at the smudge of blood across her palm. It vaguely looks like words, familiar cursive. " _It looked an awful like..._ "

Padma doesn't answer for a very long moment. " _We should... go collect his stuff before dinner ends,_ " she says by way of reply, and sniffs. " _We should let Hari decide to tell, but if he takes too long..._ "

Parvati nods, and hold out her arms. Her twin looks at her, eyes shiny, and bundles into her arms with a sob.

 

 

 

 

It's a quiet trek back upstairs.


	22. interlude pt. 8: believing their own lies

"Ron, what makes someone a pureblood again?"

Hermione rolls her eyes at the stink-eye he gives her. He's barely made a dent in the book she has him reading, and he could try a little harder. This is for Harry, after all. Rejoice a little in answering what she asks of you, boy.

"Means you've got no muggles in the family, no muggleborns, either. It's all a bunch of crock; they're in there somewhere, we all know it. People who care about blood-status want to forget about 'em," he says, and his face looks a little harder. "You saw the Black Family Tree didn't you?"

She nods. It's not as hard as it could be to imagine a family as cruel. "I did."

"I imagine it should be loads longer and bigger, but plenty've been blasted off and painted over marrying outside Pureblood circles," he continues, and then stops. Ron gives her a confused look. "But, you know this, and I've seen you reading those genie-what's-its."

Disowned members are black smears along family trees, Hermione knows. Only official goblin documents still show their names, or go far enough back.

"Yes, genealogies, but they have to start somewhere, which has to mean somewhere are many someones who didn't have magic, right? We'd all be more... inbred than we already are, if not." She grimaces at the thought, twirls a finger in her hair. It's all so confusing, honestly. "So, what none of these books want to tell me is if humans began with magic or not. I know there are half-veelas, Professors Flitwick and Hagrid, but Harry is neither first generation or such from what I can see of his public family tree."

Ron scrunches up his face. "So?"

Hermione gives him a nasty look. "So," she echoes," were wizards just as is and having children with 'creatures' something that happened, or what?"

"Like Mud Men or something?"

Blinking, because her ears could have deceived her, Hermione closes the book in front of her. "What? Say that again, Ron?"

He reddens. "No, look, sorry I didn't mean to say that," he sputters, and glances around, nervous. "Forget I even said it."

"No, tell me," she insists, glaring.

There's silence as neither wants to back down. Ron turns mullish, and tries to avoid her eyes, but she always wins these, so it's a moot point after about a minute of quiet.

"Look," he hisses, and his blue eyes are very bright, "do that thing you did before? When I-I confronted you and Harry."

Concerned, she does it without complaint. Hermione just has to hope Madam Prince doesn't happen by.

"Done," she says, and looks expectant.

Ron hunches down in his seat instead, distinctly uncomfortable looking. "It's where the word, y'know, m-mudblood comes from, supposedly," he grumbles. "Mud Men, the first humans, only no magic to their name whatsoever. Not yet, anyway, but stories I always figured."

Highly curious, she starts to reach for a scrape of parchment and a quill. Only, Ron looks panicked, and bolts up to reach across the table.

"No, no, Hermione you can't write this down, okay? You could, well, not get in trouble but it would spread, okay? Badly if anyone got a hold of it because I know how you are."

"Fine," she concedes. "But, explain why I can't too."

 

 

And, really, it's like this:

 

 

In the beginning, there were what to become Mud Men, and what to become Pure of Blood. There was magic, but the natural flow of it was not for Mud Men, strange creatures that they were without even hardened hide or glistening fangs. It was not within them, this ability to acknowledge the world around them for how Alive it truly was, is still.

Not yet, anyway.

 

 

Today, what remains of the Purest of Blood live mightily in secret because they are Creatures and Beasts, dark and horrible, or a fragile shade of the greatness they once used to be.

Mudblood comes from the coupling of a Mud Man and one Pure of Blood. At first, Mud would run strong through the Blood of these first children, and their children and children's children; they would be too similar to their Mud Men parents, but Love is Love, and Magick cares terribly so.

Only, too many would forget what they owe, these Mud Men and their Mud children, who were much too like their Mud parents. They will decide, having forgotten long enough ago, that the world had become too small for them all, and that it is theirs and theirs alone.

No one likes to talk about this, you see. Creature blood is enduring, and it will wait, and wait, and wait—

" _Charlie's told me dragons used to be terribly clever and smart, hoarders, but of all sorts of things,_ " Ron whispers, and it sends a thrill down Hermione's spine, her heart racing. " _Mum's said somewhere way back when that Fire was first cousins and direct siblings in her family_ —" He looks down at his hands, clenches them into fists, and admits, " _I may have been thinking about it. Since, y'know._ "

And wouldn't that make a horrible amount of sense?

Why the wizarding society in the isles is only just now breaking down, magical abilities dwindling. Adaption, Darwinism, social and environmental stress. It's what the studies are ignoring, ignorant and bewildered as they hush up their struggling history. This society is destroying itself, willfully so.

 

 

 

_It's not going to be enough,_ Hermione thinks, throat burning, _if Voldemort loses, and nothing changes._

 

 

 

People can blame Salazar Slytherin all they want, but he had better reasons than most to be opposed to muggleborns with muggle parents. The Witch Hunts are a mere foothold in written history, but recent enough and not entirely unfounded she can relunctantly admit, even with conflicting records of his views. But this. These so called Mud Men who were first along with those Pure of Blood.

Hermione knows the importance of tradition, and what it means to  _be_ a part of a people, but sometimes things just have to change. She can remember her cousin, snubbed by her mother's family and only because she is adopted. She can remember the struggle of oral tradition in history, the danger of it.

 

 

 

_Not so different, muggles and wizards,_ she muses bitterly, as she leaves and passes an older ravenclaw, a look of distaste plain on his face. 


	23. hope is scary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> early update b/c im going to the fair tomorrow! See u guys next friday!

Ron gets a hold of him first.

"Harry! Where have you been all night? Me and Hermione were looking for you all evening yesterday," he says, and takes a moment to glare at Seamus as he passes, the boy shuffling his way to out of the dorm room. "We even got Parvati and her sister looking, but we couldn't find you? When did you go to bed?"

"I had detention," Harry says, and maybe he's seeing _less_ colors now. Everything looks really... dull. Or, he really just needs to find his glasses. "It went much longer than I could have imagined."

Harry's given a narrowed eyed look, and he blinks slowly. "What? Like first year when you had detention out in the Forbidden Forest?" he questions, suspicious. "Did you even get to eat dinner?"

"I stopped by the kitchens," he lies, and makes the mistake of rubbing his nose with his bad hand.

Blue eyes wide, Ron stares at the bandages. "Bloody hell, mate, what did you do then?"

With a small self-deprecating laugh, Harry lies again, and again, and _again._

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

" _Did you hear...?_ "

 

" _Yeah, I wonder who..."_

 

 

 

Breakfast is dirt in Harry's mouth, the eggs rubber and the rashers ash over his tongue. Parvati keeps slipping food in front of him, and Hermione sends him worried looks as he continues to shuffle said food in front of Ron when they're both not looking. The rich smells make Harry feel sick, stomach twisting with nausea, and his head twinges with a faint but pulsing pain.

 

 

 

" _...wasn't the last person..._ "

 

" _...said he had detention with her right before..._ "

 

 

 

The professors' table has the bare minimum: Professors Flitwick, Vector, Grubby-Plank, Sprout, and Madam Hooch. His eyes jump from empty seat to empty seat. He's not the only one looking either, Parvati alternating between him, scanning the doors to the Great Hall, and the professors' exit doors by the high table.

 

 

 

" _...nutter..._ "

 

" _I believe..._ "

 

" _...asked you, Looney._ " 

 

 

It's nearly time for classes to begin when Dumbledore returns. A hush washes over the students, and Harry swallows hard as Snape sweeps in next to Professor McGonagal. A small contingent of wizards in red follow in their wake, heads swiveling round to look over the hall, eyes assessing and suspicious.

There is near silence as they make it to the high table. Dumbledore turns around after a few words with the gathered professors, and taps his wand to his throat.

Neither he nor Snape even look in Harry's direction.

"As you all know, Professor Umbridge was attacked last night," he says, voice carrying over the hall. There is not a single twinkle to his eye. "While she is in stable condition, this is a serious crime, and as such the Ministry has dispatched aurors to investigate and interview those they deem necessary to." A pause," I implore you all to be as open as you can, and speak only the truth. If anyone wishes to step forward with any information merely come to my office or find an auror; you will remain anonymous. Thank you all for your time and patience."

On cue, people start to stand, the hushed murmurs growing to a loud chatter. The fork in Harry's hand disappears along with the food on the table. He's still staring muzzily after Snape's retreating back because _what? when did that happen?_ Only, a hand is placed on his shoulder, and it startles Harry. Around him there is silence.

The arm attached to the digging fingers is robed in vivid crimson.

 

 

 

" _so he did..._ "

 

" _...you, he's a complete..._ "

 

" _...shut up, Smith!_ "

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

"Please state your name for the record," the woman says, face severe.

She hasn't told him her name, but maybe he's just mixing up muggle police procedures here. Harry chances a brief glance at the two other aurors and their faces are dark and mean looking. They're obviously not his biggest fans, though he seems to be short of those recently. 

"Harry James Potter," he says, and watches the quill jot it down after a trembling moment of hesitation, the tip jerking across the floating parchment. She watches him in turn, stares intently into his eyes. It makes a muscle jump in his jaw, but Harry works it loose, faking a yawn, and stilling his restless fingers. He wishes he had his wand. 

"Where were you between the hours of 5pm and the time of the attack on Senior Undersecretary Umbridge?"

 _Undersecretary?_ "I had detention with her at 5pm. I wrote lines."

If anything, the woman looks more convinced of his guilt. "When did it end?"

"I don't know, dinner?"

She purses her lips. "You didn't check the time as you left?"

"No."

"Where were you for the rest of the evening?"

It suddenly hits him then, like a surge of electricity, and it blows away the bloated fumes of his exhaustion; Harry can't tell them anything. Not before Snape tells Dumbledore; not before Dumbledore does whatever he wants next. If he does anything at all. Giving silent thanks to Snape of all people, Harry shifts in his chair, a little more awake. 

"I was with a few classmates."

"Their names?

"Luna Lovegood, Parvati and Padma Patil," he says, face carefully blank.

The woman looks a little hesitant now, and sometimes Harry wants to hate being a half-blood. If only because of people like her; they're just like the muggles, just a little more hung up about someone's actual blood than skin color.

"For all of the evening?"

"Enough of it, Lovegood stayed the longest."

"And they'll corroborate this, then?"

"I'd imagine so." _But, you won't interrogate them, now will you? Not like this, never like this._

They let him go after that. He wants to laugh a little at how they let him get away with being so vague at the mere mention of two pureblood families. Though, he will admit it's a little nice to get out of half of Charms.

Harry's not going to the rest of it, but it's not like Professor Flitwick will be terrible about it.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

"I can't believe they took you out in front of the _entire_ school, Harry!" Hermione growls, setting her Transfiguration book down with a disgusted  _thud_. Harry idly notes that today her hair is bundled up with a grey scarf; he hadn't noticed earlier. "They can't just humiliate you like that! Taking your wand and everything, you're not even of age to defend yourself!"

That last bit makes Harry chuckle much to her clear frustration. He could just imagine them trying to contact his aunt and uncle for anything mildly freakish and magical.

Ron settles on Harry's other side, his own face grim. "Think that was the point, 'Mione."

"Still," she insistes, and there's an undertone Harry can't place to her words. "Dumbledore should have made them wait, or got Harry himself, or a professor! Anything would have been better than an auror; they know the Ministry's got it in for Harry!"

Maybe she's realized no one really cares. Harry figured that a long time ago, but he is still ever one to dream. Maybe he ought to stop.

Parvati sits down in the row in front of them, Lavender on her right; Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott settle in on her left, and.

Wait.

Harry blinks, thrown and a little stunned. Hermione falls silent in bewilderment, eyes flickering between the two slytherins and the other side and back of the room.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry can see Ron's face going red. "Oi, what are you slimy slytherins doin' sitting on our side of the room?" he spits, glaring, and Harry scoots a little to the left and closer to Hermione.

"Oh?" says Nott, like he's only just noticing the sea of red and gold he and Zabini have sat themselves down within. He twists around to look up at them. "These seats have your names on them, then?"

"No, but—"

Nott interrupts him, says, "Okay then," and turns right back around in his seat.

Zabini says not say a word, and class goes on as usual.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The day trudges by, and Harry eventually goes to bed.

He doesn't want to admit it, but he'd almost _hoped_ —

 

 

And really that was a mistake, _Merlin_ , you'd think he'd have learned.


	24. the calm (before the storm)

It's Friday, and Harry wants to lay in bed all day, but Hermione is having none of that, no sir.

He's dragged down to breakfast, and under her watchful eye, he chokes down a bowl of oatmeal. It makes him feel overfull and nauseated, but she just smiles, and he needs to eat something, he knows.

 

 

" _... must have lied..._ "

 

" _...be telling the truth._ "

 

" _... pull the other..._ "

 

 

Ron ambles down a few minutes after, hair stuck up one side. Harry cracks a tentative smile, and watches as Hermione makes a valiant attempt to smooth it down just as Oliver and Angelina tumble into the Great Hall followed by the rest of the Quidditch team.

Fred and George settle across form him with twin _thumps,_ Oliver and Angelina jocking for the spaces on their right against the others and each other. They grin at Harry, and lean forward conspiratorially despite the flying elbows.

"So Harry-" "We've heard that you were the last to have been with Umbitch-" "And we won't tell anyone, but-" "Did you happen to do her in, then?" "We won't tell, centaur scouts honor!"

Ouch.

"I didn't," he says, and maybe he looks miserable because they wince, faces coloring apologetically.

Fred, maybe, reaches across the table to pat his hand, the good one, after a moment. Harry looks down, and grimaces, unclenches it from around the spoon. The stem is warped from his fingers, and it just looks very sad and dejected. He lets go of it, and between one blink and the next, the spoon is gone..

 

 

" _... don't trust..._ "

 

" _... think he's cute._ "

 

" _...no..._ _"_

 

 

There's a _crash,_  and the entire table jolts, turns just in time to watch Oliver land flat against the tabletop and slide off. Angelina sits down with a prim smile, dark eyes daring them all to say anything.

"Lovely day for tryouts, yeah?" she says, all teeth, and even Hermione nods, wary.

Huh. Harry'd forgotten about tryouts, and just the very thought of the wind in his hair makes him feel ten times lighter. 

Oliver claws his way back up covered in a spattering of eggs and upturned gravy. "I'll get you for this Johnson," he threatens, and brandishes a bent fork. She just laughs. "Mark my words! You laugh now, but you'd better watch your back!"

Angelina drapes a napkin over the seventh year's hair, and pats his head. "Of course, Ollie."

The table breaks out into rancorous laughter, fists banging on the table, and Harry's caught up in it, chest swelling with temporary delight

It's a good day.

 

 

" _... absolute nutters._ " 


	25. interlude pt. 9: dig(ing) your own grave

Cho doesn't exactly just _happen_ across Harry, letters of her own in hand. She's not entirely sure what she's doing either because... because when she looks at him, it hurts terribly so. Every glimpse of him takes Cho's breath away, and she _wants_ to say it's in a good way.

It hurts more than Cedric ever does, and maybe that's okay. Cho wants to be okay, and for her memories of him to hurt her no more.

So.

The girl will smile at The-Boy-Who-Lived once Flitch is gone, and hope, just a little, that he might understand.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

"How would you characterize your housemates, Luna Lovegood and Padma Patil?"

Cho will hem a little, think it over, and not watch herself. The girl will not think the question a little too pointed, or a little too strange and sudden, because this too is a facade. She's hurting, but shoving it down, down.

"Lovegood's weird," she settles on, and the auror seems to eat it up. "Aye, tellin' stories abit creatures that don't exist. Patil doesn't get on with her, nae a body really does though. We, ah—" and she pauses, blinking a little shyly, but the woman beckons her on with a friendly expression. Cho palms her wand in her pocket, and takes a breath."—Well, th' younger years caa 'er Looney Lovegood since she's always makin' things up."

"And Patil? Her, sister too, if you happen to know her?"

A slight frown starts to mare Cho's face. "Patil is smart, an' I figure her sister too, bein' twins an' all, but I don't actually ken them personally."

"What about Harry Potter? What do you think of him?"

Her heart flops a little painfully. Oh. "He's braw, er, nice I mean, gotten th' bad end of th' stick a lot," she manages, struggling to hold fast to her words. Oh, dear. "After l-lest year an' a-all wi' Yoo-Know-Who."

The auror seems unimpressed with her now, lips pulling at the corners with a frown of her own. "Hm, yes, perhaps, perhaps not," she says, and Cho balks a little at the woman's barbed tone, the rudeness of it. Cho realizes then she should have just said no. She's of age, she could have just said _no._  "That'll be all Miss Chang, thank you for your time."

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Cho will stand, take a moment in the empty hallway, and think,  _He didn't do it,_ with a poisonous look at the doorway behind her.


	26. informed wrongness pt. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise!!! this is for being so close to 2k hits and 105 kudos!!! and also this chapter means I can start filler stuff, references, and inspirations for this fic in another fic, so you might see that sometime in Nov!! (word of warning: I love secondary and minor characters so, yeah, watch out in this fic too lol)
> 
> But also bit of not fun news for u guys: there will be no updates in December, and possibly not until middle of January next year. I'm hoping to build up my buffer of chapters again, which i had like 40 of at the beginning of this fic (which spoiler alert: gets us to like a bit before xmas lololol end me), and Im taking Dec - Mid-Jan to build it back up over winter break. This is so u all can have weekly updates, cos if I didn't have a buffer u'd all suffer my other fic nonsense of no updates for like 5 months lmao (this stuff is done all by my lonesome, but maybe one day I'll get a beta; sorry for all spellings and typos!!!)
> 
> Thanks for all your love of comments and kudos!! see u all next friday!!

Blaise gets his chance on Sunday.

The aurors are finally gone, and Potter's trudging along by his lonesome right before lunch. So, he sidles up next to the boy as a cluster of Ravenclaws pass by.

"Potter, could I have a word?"

The boy starts, spooked, and then looks confused, only marginally concerned and suspicious. Blaise is just glad he finally found a moment the will'o wisps he calls friends are elsewhere. Though, Patil is giving him the stink eye from across the hallway as he waits for Potter to make up his mind. He'd have apologized for sitting next to her, but he's really not sorry at all.

Blaise gives her a winsome smile, and she turns away with a disgusted huff.

Potter is still slowly actualizing his request, so Blaise takes the time to look him over, eyes giving the spikes of marred black at his temples brief glances, trying not to ogle. He should have figured that's what was behind to magical haze, really. Otherwise? The Boy-Who-Lived looks like utter hippogriff shite, if he's being honest. His clothes are disheveled, hair sticking up in various places, though that is a given,but his skin is an unhealthy and sickly tone.

His left hand is bandaged too, has been since Umbridge was attacked, if Blaise is not mistaken.

He's generally not, but oh, would you look at that Potter finally agreed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

They walk in silence, the mingling crowds thinning to nothing as they go lower and lower, the air getting cooler. The dungeons are empty for lunch, and Blaise wonders if Potter is just arrogant or really that foolish without his little posse around to tell him otherwise. He's betting both because Gryffindors, never terribly good at long term planning or self-preservation.

But, they arrive soon enough, and Blaise lets Potter into the abandoned classroom first, closing the door behind them. Merlin, how has The-Boy-Who-Lived actually lived this long, he'll never know. This could have been a trap, and he walked willingly right into it.

 

_Gryffindors._

 

The damp smell of moss and dripping water is a comfort, though it looks like anything but as Potter takes in those gathered. He looks incredibly nervous, now that Blaise can see him, and his eyes linger on Malfoy and Crabbe the longest before sweeping along the others and back to Blaise himself.

"Um," is Potter's intelligent response, gives the other boy a helpless look.

_Precious,_ Blaise thinks, utterly unimpressed with the act. _He thinks I'm his friend here._

"We just want to have a friendly chat, is all," he demures, and motions to some moderately dry but molding desks. "Sit, and we'll get right to it."

Potter sits, eyes flickering around, and there's a collective shift. Blaise gives them all a brief glare at the show of weakness, at their apprehensive faces. One would think they knew how to act in the presence of a predator. He is one too, after all, unlike them really, so they should have known _some_ tact. Well. Yurika does, anyway.

"Nott," he says after a moment, and gives the skinny boy a nod as he steps closer to the middle of the room where everyone can see.

With a jerk of a headshake because Blaise knows he thinks this is a bad idea, Theodore chucks the bag of gobstones onto the floor at Blaise's feet, halting his advance. If possible, the room seems to grow completely silent, and Blaise fights it briefly before crouching to count the spilt game. He hums into the silence, the compulsion a little relieving; Blaise hasn't gotten to do this for a while now. Mother only likes to count Galleons, and while Blaise does too, he likes gems the best. _Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen..._

Not a word is uttered as he finishes, pulling together the drawstrings of the bag as he stands. Blaise keeps a cool face as he looks back to Potter. Strangely, the boy just looks even more confused.

"Is... Is this some sort of prank?" Potter asks, green eyes guileless. "It's, uh, not very good."

 

_What._

 

"You've come into your heritage," Blaise counters, maybe a little irritated. How could he not know? Everyone worth their galleon within the school _knows._ "Don't tell me you can't tell why you're here."

Defensive, Potter snaps, "Alright, I won't then," and crosses his arms. Maybe this was a little too subtle for him.

There's a laugh from behind Blaise, and he turns around with a sigh, lets Potter dodge the issue at hand.

Malfoy is trembling, sputtering with laughter; Blaise gives him a disapproving look. "I told you! He grew up with muggles, he doesn't know!" he gasps, and it pulls the nearly invisible scar on his face to glinting silver. "If you'd have just listened to me—"

"Oh, shut your gob... Malfoy," snaps one of the Carrows, Hestia or Flora, Blaise is not sure. They both look sick with nerves, so it explains the outburst. Their kind so terribly likes to watch and stalk than talk. "He had to know... _something_. It's easy to... tell."

"Only if you know how," counters one of the second years, Yatin, and he shies back behind the other two, Zubeida and Yurika, as everyone looks at him. He lowers his eyes, and grips one hand onto Yurika's sleeves. "I just, it was hard for me at first, is all."

Next to her sister, Daphne scoffs. "Well, he—"

" _He_ is still right here," growls Potter, suddenly, and the room falls silent. Blaise's skin crawls, and poor Yatin and Zubeida look about ready to faint, Yurika blank faced. "I haven't a single idea as to what you're all gong on about, so either tell me, or I'm leaving."

Blaise blinks, and gives himself a small shake. He turns and gives Potter a bland but assessing and pointed look. "You really don't know?" he says because it changes a few things.

Potter opens his mouth, but then seems to notice Blaise is looking somewhere around his forehead. His mouth clicks shut, eyes going wide. The dark smudges under them look more pronounced as Potter takes another more haunted look around the room.

"... No," he says, but he clearly can tell there's something more to them now. Just not enough, it seems.

Blaise straightens, and folds his hands behind his back, the bag of gobstones clinking with the movement. "We're all _Pure of Blood_ here," he drawls, takes a breath, and flashes his pin-needle teeth in a sharp snarl.

There's something incredibly satisfying about seeing the Golden Boy flinch and scramble back in his seat. Blaise can hear his heart racing even, the vein in his neck pulsing with blood and so very tempting. But, he knows better, and he's already had lunch so it's easy to tamp down on the desire to take even just a little bite.

Potter looks gloriously afraid, and it confuses Blaise in the end, really. An apex predator who doesn't even know it. Hilarious.

"Y-You're a V-Vampire?" he stutters, pupils dilated and face curling a little mean.

"I am," Blaise confirms, though it twinges uncomfortably, the word slipping too freely from his mouth. He sweeps a hand behind him, and considers it, ignores the subtle challenge. "We're all something or another, and we wanted to know if you had any problems with that."

There's a pregnant pause, and someone shifts behind Blaise. Again. Tactless.

"I don't understand," Potter finally says, and the fear is fading, his eyes a little more alive, almost worryingly so. "Why does my opinion matter? I thought... I thought you all were purebloods?"

That twinge is back, more painful now. Blaise suddenly wants to say things he actually doesn't, the words burning and rattling against the back of his teeth. This is terribly uncouth, terribly _rude._ He'd bared one of his few weaknesses and this was how Potter paid in kind?

Someone must see the tension hiking Blaise's shoulders into the prolonged silence because in the next moment there's a loud hiss and Potter's knocked over the desk, eyes aglow and returning snarl much deeper and louder than Zuibeida or Higgs could ever manage. There's shouting, a couple of countering snarls, and then.

 

 

Blaise forgets.

 

 

It's strange, like he's blinked awake from a doze, lost a bit of time. Blaise comes back to himself dizzy, similar to when he's been without a meal for three days, and head splitting. The clamor of the room bounces heavily off the walls and on his ears, and Blaise grimaces.

The boy turns at a hand tugging his sleeve, and blinks down into bright yellow and slit eyes. Zuibeida is crying, tears trailing slowly, and the child points to where Potter's plastered in a wet corner, face twisted with fear and anger, surrounded but wand forgotten.

Skinny but looming frames of inky and spindly limbs are the Carrows, maws gaping and growling. Higgs has a grip on Yatin, who is all flared wings, muscled arms and clacking, screaming beak. Malfoy and the Greengrasses all have their wands trained on Potter, faces grim, stressed, but Theodore is only halfway still here, edges flickering erratically. He gives Blaise a wild-eyed look before disappearing entirely.

 

Well. This is a right mess. Blaise is suddenly glad they did choose a classroom so far from everything else. They're all loud enough to wake the dead at this point. He gives the walls a careful look because the Bloody Baron  _would_ barge in, courtesy notwithstanding.

 

"I-I thought h-he was l-like me," Zubeida hiccups, and their fist tightens on Blaise's robe. "He i-isn't, but h-he is, and I w-want my _M-Mā_."

_Lovely,_ he thinks, and pries the second year's clawed hand from his robe. Blaise shoos them over to where Crabbe is still sitting quietly on the other side of the room, a stony and blue faced Yurika gripping tight his hand, before settling himself. _Okay._

Blaise steps closer, and Malfoy's glamour slides cold over him as he makes his wzy past. Higgs and Yatin settle at his presence, but the Carrows are still a shifting and snarling black, blood red eyes boring into Potter as they cage him with their arms and clawed hands.

"Hestia, Flora," he starts, and sets his hand on their sides gently, thin ribs heaving underneath. "It's alright, I'm fine; a miscommunication on both our parts, I believe."

_No hard feelings_ would be a lie, but as he picks at the left behind scrapes of memory, Blaise may just be able to forgive Potter. _If I'm forgiven in turn_ , he admits to himself as the Carrows fall back more _human_ shaped. He's just as at fault, after all.

"Alright there, Potter?" he asks, but the boy stays braced in the corner, robes darkening more and more with the draining water. "We may have been operating under a few misunderstandings, so—"

Potter laughs, and it's honestly a little terrifying. Blaise takes a step back, and schools his expression despite the fear fluttering his dead heart. " _A few?_ " Potter repeats, nasty and unkind. "A few. _Right!_ If you all wanted to threaten me about something I knew about, you're doing a right bang up job, mate!"

There's a pause as Potter breathes, eyes green slivers behind his hair, and Blaise takes that moment to look over his shoulder. "Crabbe," he says, and the other boy nods.

Not a word is said as the Carrows, Astoria, and the second years are herded up and from the room. Having them around seems to be more of a hindrance than a play on their youth. It's only once they're gone that Blaise exhales a long and tired breath.

"... I wouldn't have hurt them," comes a quiet whisper, and Potter slides down against the wall to the floor, anger spent. "I don't know what's happening."

"I know," Blaise says, because he's as much a truthdiviner as Potter apparently is. It's the real reason why they're here after all. "And, I ,too, apologize."

He moves closer, careful and slow as he's seen the Carrows, and offers a hand to Potter. There's an uncomfortable cough from behind Blaise, but he's never cared about Malfoy's sensitivities to emotional outbursts. It's why the younger years like Blaise more than him anyway. _Emotions don't catch, Malfoy,_ he remembers saying one time, after a firstie had bit the prat out of homesickness. Yurika, actually, if he remembers correctly.

 

 

 

 

Good times are just not meant to last, Blaise knows this. It just doesn't make it any more fair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon-ly, the student Carrows don't talk like ever apparently??? so imagine taking almost a breath every sentence and there u go, a good reason to talk never around human ppl.  
> (also Cho Chang's actress is scottish. I should rewatch all of OotP, did she have a scottish accent??? well she does now (and she is chinese like the actress) I'll get into everyone else in another fic)
> 
> but if anyone wants to take a stab at guessing what everyone is creature-wise, I'd love to hear it!


	27. interlude pt. 10: the audience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to let u guys kno these kids r my favorites

They're nearly at the common room when Yurika stops, drops hold of Yatin's hand, and says, "I do not understand."

 

 

 

The group grinds to a halt, and stare back at her. Steel-blue still tints the edges of her face, teeth a little too sharp, and eyes glossy and near pitch. There's a pause, because none of them are as good with the younger years as Blaise, and Astoria and Crabbe share a slightly panicked look.

"I do not _understand,_ " she repeats, but the last word is half a hitching squeak. The child does not understand why they must... must _appeal_ to this the new creature, and it frustrates her. _She does not understand._

Yurika cries, and it is the other second years that run to her first, grabbing her hands.

"It's because, um," starts Yatin, looking helplessly at Zuibeda, "he is like a big, big snake. He might to decide to eat us, if he doesn't like us."

Zuibeda nods, blinking. "Y-Yeah, like me, but bigger, maybe m-meaner. We gotta, um, be nice first?" they say, and scrub their free hand across their already red but dark brown eyes. "He's t-too big."

" _I_ a-am bigger than y-you, Z-Zuibeda," Yurika hiccups, and scrunches up her face at the robes suddenly rubbed across it.

"Not... like Potter," says one of the Carrows, languid and soft. It is probably Hestia who draws back her sleeve. Flora doesn't much like Yurika right now, even though she is really sorry she bit her last week; she needs to stop biting people, it is not like at home. "He will always be... bigger than you, and you will do well to remember... that."

"I a-am _Big Tooth_ _,_ " she insists, and sucks back on snot, light brown eyes watery. "Soon, I am b-biggest."

Hestia pats her head, awkward and a little heavy-handed. Ow. "Not soon... enough, Haneda," she says, and nods to Yatin and Zuibeda. "Let's go... we don't want to be caught... out here, not right now."

"O-Okay," Yurika mumbles, and let's herself be tugged along, hands wrapped tight in Yatin's and Zuibeda's.

 

 

 

 

 _Soon,_ the child tells herself as they're bundled through the common room entrance. _Soon._


	28. informed wrongness pt. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if u want to try and puzzle anyone out, looking at the etymology of their names and checking out related creatures to the cultures will work for just about everyone. Though I'll give u all a freebie on Yurika: Big Tooth Shark, Dukuwaqa

The hand in front of him is still, fingers crooked, and when he reaches out, it grips firm his trembling own. Harry lets himself be pulled to his feet, and brushed down. His robes are damp, leaking warmth, and ever so heavy on his body, but it's his own fault. He'll just have to deal with it. Like always.

"So," he starts, a little hesitant and hoarse, and looks over Zabini's shoulder at Malfoy, "guess some of those, erm, Veela rumors were true then?"

Malfoy sneers, wand lowering, and then looks a little panicked. Harry's knocked hard in the shoulder in the next moment, and he staggers back into the wall with the force of it. Focusing back on Zabini, he's giving Harry a look of complete disapproval. It rankles, unreasonable so.

"Don't do that," Zabini says, and it's nonnegotiable, whatever _that_ is.

"Don't do wh—" is all the boy manages before Zabini jabs him hard in the other shoulder with his wand.

" _That_ ," he growls, and it's an honest to Merlin growl then, the hairs on Harry's neck rising. "Stop forcing the truth from people, it's impolite."

Guarded, Harry thinks it over. It's not really all that reassuring. "I don't know what I'm supposed to stop," he snaps, words dripping with new found acid, and rubs the first shoulder abused. This tone feels right. "Tell me, if you'd be so kind, Zabini."

Zabini arches an eyebrow, suddenly amused. "Found your backbone, then, Potter?"

Hissing a long, and vulgar line, Harry clenches his other hand and steps away from the wall. Malfoy is a wary figure next to Greengrass and Higgs, though the last seems terribly amused despite himself. The boy blinks briefly at the seventh year, and startles at a returning hiss.

" _Sssalutationss, half-kin,_ " he says, the curls of the consonants long and overly pronounced, and doesn't that just explain the ease of parseltongue?

Harry just gives him a pinched look and short nod, unwilling to puzzle that one out just yet. Sure, no one has ever owed _him_ any favors but second year was still a terrible year, y'know? He staggers over to a still standing desk and drops into it with a small groan.  _Merlin's beard._

Zabini trails after the others as they retake their places on the other side of room, but remains standing. "Do you know what Truthdiviners are?" he asks, entirely like he doesn't expect Harry to know the answer. He could take a stab at it, hah, but no. Harry shakes is head. "It's a rare... trait, even among vampires, being able to _divine_ whether someone is lying; I have it, and so do you, after a fashion it seems."

Yes. That would make sense wouldn't it. "I can't turn it off," Harry hazards, and the other Slytherins look a little sick at the idea. Honestly, Harry feels a little sick about it too. If he can't turn it off, then how is he ever going to ask anyone a question?

"Perhaps," is Zabini's answer before he sweeps both his arms up, hands splayed. Distracted, Harry briefly wonders where the gobstones went, where Nott went. "We don't know what you are, just that... you're bigger than all of us combined, and we were hoping to, ah, work a deal out."

_A protection racket_ , is Harry's first thought, half remembered muggle history floating to the surface. But. "Voldemort _is_ back," he says, and Malfoy is the only one to flinch. Harry takes a shaky breath. "I was there, I saw—" _some of your parents, "_ —him... he killed C-Cedric, right in front of me."

_Kill the spare,_ echoes in his ears, and Harry swallows hard. _Pathetic._ He'd have thought they knew that about him already, but here they are. He can't even save one classmate, what makes them think he can _help_ more than five of them? After all, being the Boy-Who-Lived isn't all what it's cracked up to be when everyone around you ends up dead.

Zabini is quiet for a moment, eyes dark and assessing. "I heard you last year, I heard you in class," he says, and it's with a terribly dead tone. Malfoy looks offended behind him. "It's an entirely different thing to hear it from you, directly. I want to hate you for not being a liar."

"I'm sorry," he says, and tries to mean it. _Kill the spare._

Harry's given a crooked but sad smile. "No you're not."

_No, I'm not,_ Harry agrees, and grips his throbbing shoulder just a bit tighter. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Kill the spare._

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Harry drifts back upstairs, feeling particularly strung out and exhausted yet again. There's so much to do, so much to think, and.

 

It's an itch now, an annoying flicker of awareness of the space around him.

 

The halls are filling with students, and Harry knows there are _others_ amongst them now, even if he can't tell what.

A tight knot of Hufflepuffs brush by, and as MacMillian knocks Harry's shoulder, he is reminded of the gold he saw in his first year, towering to the top of his vault, and long curved horns. The boy doesn't know what that could be, and he blinks dazed after the group of yellow and black.

_I'm tired,_ he thinks, and goes to bed.


	29. wishing for wishes

"I can't believe he was up here the entire time," Ron complains, and glares half-heartedly at the lump that is their friend. His wand trembles uselessly in his palm, the _point me_ clearly not working. "Can spells go on the fritz?"

Hermione gives it a distracted look, bottom lip caught between his teeth. It's never done that before. "If you're doing it wrong, perhaps," she says, though that doesn't feel quite right. Parvati rolls her eyes as Ron puffs up indignantly, and Hermione shakes her head minutely.

Harry is a mass of blankets, the slow rise and fall really the only indication that someone is even under there. It's sort of endearing, Hermione thinks. Or, at least she would if she didn't know he's always had a shortage of covers his entire life. It's a little sad by that end.

With a sigh, she reaches for what she guesses is a shoulder, and gives it a short shake. "This is important, Harry, wake up, please," she tries, and isn't the least bit surprised he merely wrenches his shoulder free and rolls over. Another sigh.

"Go away," comes muffled from under the blankets, thick with sleep and exhaustion. Only, it's evening, and dinner is near over; they last saw him before lunch. What could he have been doing? 

"We need to talk," Hermione says, tries not make it sound so demanding, commanding. She wishes he'd just get up, honestly, but. A breath. She chances a look at Ron and Parvati, the former is amused but the later is marred with a frown.

 

Hm.

 

There's such a long moment before his reply that she nearly thinks he's fallen back to sleep on her before Harry mumbles, "No we don't," and seems to burrow deeper into his covers.

Ron snorts, entirely unhelpful.

"Alright, the hard way then," says Parvati, and Hermione just has time to see her brandish her wand, eyes dark and serious, before: " _Levicorpus!_ "

A green bolt whips from her wand, and Hermione watches, stunned, as it slithers under the pile of blankets, pulls taut. Harry is dragged up from his bed with a shout, covers falling to cloth puddles on the floor. She tries not to laugh, equal parts bewildered, slightly panicked and humored, but it's hard as he starts to fight with his shirt flipped around his head. 

"Put me down!" he yelps, and they can see the green of his eyes by the hem. "This isn't funny!"

Ron near chokes with his laughter. "It kinda is," he insists, tears in his eyes.

Harry struggles, hissing and growling, in the air for one more moment before falling still. His chest heaves with each breath, and Hermione tries not to count his ribs, good feelings gone. Ah. " _Okay!_ Put me down, we can talk or whatever it is you want," he says, aggravated.

Parvati flicks her wand, eyebrows furrowed. " _Finite incantatem._ "

He's dropped like a rock, the rope of green around his ankle snapping free, and lands with a grunt. Harry takes a moment to scramble up, and plant his feet heavily onto the floor. Hermione presses a hand to her lips to hide her frown, and briefly eyes Parvati; the other girl is staring at Harry, a worried look to her face, frown deepening.

Glaring, he gropes blindly for his wand and glasses. "What's so important you had to wake me up at—" A pause as he flicks his found wand with a muttered _tempus,_ and— "bloody 7:15! Shite, I've nearly missed all of dinner!" Harry yelps, and jumps up, looking around helplessly for the rest of his uniform.

"We brought you some food," Ron tells him with a grin as they stumble back a few steps, and jerks a thumb over his shoulder. "It's downstairs; perks of being a Prefect, no one questions you needing food from the kitchens. Could be consoling a firstie for all they know."

Harry blinks at him, half bent over his trunk, and looks blearily awed. Hermione is vaguely alarmed at the whiplash of emotion. "You guys are the best friends anyone could ask for," he says, near reverent, and dear Lord dare she say it? Glossy eyed.

"Are you alright, Harry?" Parvati asks, also alarmed because oh. He's crying.

Hermione hurries forward, worry cascading over her like the crest of a wave, strong and tremendous. It nearly takes her breath away, but she pushes through it, chest tight with the twisting and roiling thrum within her ribs. "What's the matter? Are you hurt?" she says, and begins patting him down, looking for any type of wound. He's the type to hide an injury, she knows. "Is it your hand? Is it still bothering you?"

He's still sniffling as he snatches it away, folds it behind his back, but it's a soft flow of tears, not sobs or snotty. "No, it's j-just you g-guys are the b-best," he hiccups, and Ron catches Harry as he stumbles past her. "I l-love? All o-of you?"

Taking a breath, Hermione scrunches up her nose. She doesn't smell blood, but faintly water and earth, and a lot of things she couldn't even being to name, but.

 

 

Something cold coats him in a fine and potent dusting. Hermione stifles a shiver. It's like breathing in mint, the taste on her tongue, and icy air over rocks during Winter. It's familiar though, beneath it all. 

 

 

"Harry, were you down in the dungeons? With... Malfoy, of all people?" she says, squeaks the last bit because how exactly does she even know that. Hermione palms her face, cheeks heating. "Merlin, why do I know that?"

No one answers, and Harry is staring at her now, half hanging out of Ron's arms. His eyes have never looked so bright to her, near radiant. Like glistening poison, and neither has Hermione ever had that thought before. She gives herself a shake. Something's changing, she realizes fully in that moment; not just with Harry, with Ron, but with her too. _Others_ is the whirl of scents rafting around Harry like a clinging shroud.

"We need to talk, Harry," she repeats, shaky.  _Later._

"Yeah," he manages in turn, tears still trailing tracks down his face.


	30. sure, let's go with that

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter next friday! See u all then!!

Padma realizes something is amiss. In the school, with Harry, with Granger and Weasley. With... the populace, if she's being honest. Underlying the return of He-Who-Shall-Not Be-Named, she thinks social structures have been rearranged nearly overnight but in a subtle and not in a completely related way. It's barely the end of the first week, and already things are going pear-shaped, to use the English phrase.

 

" _Show them, Harry_ ," she says, and instead he fiddles with his treacle tart, shakes his head like he can't understand her. In English, she repeats," _Show them_."

 

Her sister and Lovegood shift beside her, one side to Harry, Granger and Weasley. They have precious little time before dinner ends; they've already had to silence two first years, though one look from Harry scared them more than threats of point deductions.

"There's something weird with your hand, right?" Weasley says after another lack of reply. Padma doesn't want to admit she's surprised at his perceptiveness; he's scarily good at chess and quidditch, with strategy, but not at much else. "I can't explain it, but it's... cold? An empty, like, space of warmness? Get what I'm sayin'?"

She doesn't, but magic, especially the darkest of dark, can be like that. It takes more than many are willing to give, in some instances. "Tell them, or we will," Padma threatens, and wants to wither at the betrayed look he gives them.

"My hand got hurt during detention, it's fine now, I'm just coming to terms with the scar," Harry says, eyes challenging and defiant, face exhausted.

She'll give him points for the well spun truth; Granger and Weasley are not entirely convinced, but Padma can see that they _could_ be despite the latter's words. She's just opening her mouth—

"Someone hurt him with dark magic," says Lovegood, and it's sad, even as the secluded corner thickens with horror. "He got help for it, but it left its scar."

Padma feels sick; she hadn't connected the dots because there are any manner of spells that can produce the same results, even so called _Light_ spells. She knows, has read enough books. _Merlin,_ the things wizards have gotten up to.

Granger connects more dots, face going dark and eyes rippling gold. It's a little scary, if Padma's honest, and _interesting_ complied with earlier. " _Umbridge,_ " she hisses, and it's barely intelligible, her anger warping the words nearly beyond English.

By Harry's gritted teeth and the crumbling food in his clenched hands, Padma thinks Granger's right.

"Harry—"

" _I didn't attack her_ ," he says, and it's terribly foreign sounding, like he's begging and demanding that they understand; that they believe him. " _I didn't, I swear._ "

Lovegood murmurs something as Weasley punches the cushions of couch, face bright red and hair raising, words caught in his own clenched teeth. Padma gives her a weak but curious look. Lovegood is ever strange.

"We know Harry, we know that," Paravti says, but he doesn't look like he believes them and that _hurts._

"We have to tell someone," Granger growls, and Padma swears she sees sparks. "What if she comes back? She can't, she can't _hurt_ students like this, she can't hurt _Harry_ like this and get away with it!"

And, maybe Padma's being a little cold here but. Justice over his well-being? Even she can tell he doesn't want that; Harry just doesn't want to be hurt anymore, for there to be an end to this long line of pain.

Parvati's fingers find Padma's, curling tight. "We did," her sister whispers, trembles with contained rage. "He did nothing, even though he promised."

"Or, he did," continues Harry, and her heart flops in despair, "and no one cares."

Weasley echoes _He?_ but Granger rears up instead, and looks like her whole world might be crumbling down. "Dumbledore wouldn't—"

Harry takes to his feet, plate bursting to pieces against the floor. His face is pained, livid but smothered with hurt and resignation. " _Forget Dumbledore!"_ he bellows, and the entire room seems to rattle, the privacy charm shimmering, straining. " _He doesn't care, and no one would believe me anyway! I'm a liar and an attention seeking brownie,_ _remember?_ "

The fight goes out of Granger, and Padma swallows hard. By Gita and Merlin, sometimes she just wants to leave these isles behind, take her family and leave, bundle Harry up and take him too. Only, nowhere in the world is untouched, and they cannot run. Not now, maybe not ever.

Silence reigns for much too long, and voices are drifting closer. Lovegood stands first, eyes clearer than Padma has ever seen them. She watches as the younger girl walks over to a deflating Harry, and takes his hand. He stiffens but does not fight her as she takes the stripes of white from his hand.

"I'm sorry, Harry Potter," she says, soft, and places the bandages on the arm of the chair. Lovegood gives his hand a gentle pat before turning toward a cracking Granger and a steaming Weasley. Literally, Padma thinks, like he's swallowed a bottle of pepper-up while they weren't looking. Only—

The common room door is swinging open to admit a cluster of second and third years, and that's their cue to leave.

"Bye," Padma whispers to the Gryffindors, squeezes her sister's hand, and stands, follows after Lovegood.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 _Magic protects its own?_ she wonders as they ascend the stairs.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Ron inhales, exhales. "Harry," he says, long after the two Ravenclaws are gone. _I must not tell lies_ won't leave his mind even in the quiet corner they hold together into the night. "You didn't deserve what Umbridge did to you, you know that, right?"

Harry doesn't answer for a very long moment, face pressed away over Hermione's shoulder. Her eyes glint in the flickering light of the fireplace, reflective, Ron thinks, as they share a look.

"... Are you sure?"

It feels like a disillusionment charm, like every time he's settled under Harry's Invisibility cloak; it's a wash of cold water or a stiff breeze in Winter. Ron's not going to remember this moment terribly well, and that's okay. " _Yes,_ " he swears, and the fire in the hearth swells a little with the promise, startles a lounging seventh year.

 _He,_ echoes a little louder, and Ron shifts as Harry gropes for his hand, bony and thin fingers gripping tight his own. _A professor._ Snape. Of bloody course.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Sirius pushes his head into flames, and finds no one there to answer.

He is maybe, just a little, relieved.


	31. from the ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright, it's early cos i have a super busy day tomorrow! This is it, so I'll be seeing u guys next year! hope you all have Happy holidays and a happy new year!

Umbridge returns the following Wednesday, unannounced and during dinner.

 

 

The Great Hall falls silent, the hush stunned and stark as the doors creak open. Around Susan her housemates shift, and the apprehension is so thick she's sure she could take her case-knife to it and cleave it in two before her very eyes. Ernie shifts on her left, and Hannah looks faint across from them, face pale and eyes wide. Susan grips tighter the unopened letter in her hand, crinkles the crested envelope.

Dumbledore stands at the High Table, genial expression faltering for one flickering second. "Professor Umbridge, welcome back," greets the Headmaster, voice carrying across them all. They all know he doesn't mean it, not really. "Had I known you would return tonight, I would have had the elves prepare a feast to celebrate your swift recovery."

She doesn't answer, and takes a brief sweep of the Great Hall. Without a word, she steps from the doors. Susan doesn't think it's her imagination that students shy back from her as she walks between the tables, all eyes on her. The woman smiles, but is rotted, evil, and it sends a spike of fear down Susan's spine, suddenly goose skinned. Dread curls tight beneath her ribs, a scream rattling at the back of her throat because—because—

It's a cloying, familiar scent, peach sweet, and Susan just wants to howl it aloud for the whole world to know. It's a sickness spiraling up from the woman's hand, thick in her blood, and it clouds the air around her, leaks her life.

 

 

 

 

Umbridge is _dying._

 

 

 

 

Susan swallows a wail and her tears, gropes for Ernie's hand. It's warm, and so very alive in hers, grounding as she wants to fly away from it all.

"... Susan?" he asks, and she tightens her hold.

The girl squeezes her eyes shut. "Leanne... Leanne said Bell said Granger was sniffing out people for a _club_ ," she whispers, though it feels like a shout in the surrounding silence.

Ernie leans closer, his shoulder pressing into hers. "I heard," he says back, soft. "I thought... people have their doubts about Potter."

Slitting her eyes back open, Susan bites her lip. Umbridge is just pulling out her seat, and the woman has to know she's dying by inches. She has to. "The doubts aren't worth it," she murmurs, swallows thickly.

With a terrible rendition of another smile at her fellows, Umbridge turns back to the Hall at large. There's something about her eyes, and Susan has to look away. "Let us continue to strive for a wonderful year," she says, and it's all Susan can manage to stare at her deep magenta robes that glisten under the torchlight.

"They really aren't worth it," Susan repeats, and turns, sees Harry Potter.

His eyes are shiny, like polished gemstones, and filled with something fleeting but cold. It makes the green of his irises seem like flyaway Killing Curses, and Susan would rather him than the monster tempered in pink, jaws dripping and locked tight around the school, no matter how the color steals her breath away.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

  

_Dear Susan,_

 

_I write this to you now so that you may not be blindsided by tomorrow's Prophet._

_Undersecretary Umbridge will be returning to Hogwarts, and I fear it will not be for the better._

_..._

_Be good, stay safe, and owl me if there is any trouble, any trouble at all._

 

_With Love,_

_Aunt Amelia_


	32. call to arms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoo happy new year!! ahaha i have slightly unfortunate news: i only got to like 1/4 of my goal done over break so!! I wont be updating every friday, but every other, so two fridays from now I'll update ( feb 3rd) but it will probs not be this fic, but extra stuff. Also I went back and changed a few things, and there are a couple of things I need to fix that I messed up on (Oliver Wood graduated last year lmao oops), and! 
> 
> I welcome all comments, I do, but if you're going to criticize me poorly, I'll say a couple of things: (1) this is my first big fic with a /lot/ of thought put into it u all wont believe so chill??? in general???, (2) im lazy and not at the same time, (3) please make it constructive? I won't learn anything if all you have is complaints about how the fic is going (it's going how i want it, and if u want it to go another way, please, do write ur own. I languished for years after Horns came out on the first 3 lines of this fic wishing someone would write something so I wouldnt have to), and (4) i do what I want.
> 
> I love all of you guys who enjoy this fic, thank you so much for being supportive!! I archive comments in my email and reread them all the time, so really, thank all of you, even those who don't say more than enough to just be +1 hit on this fic!! see y'all later <33

Now, Terry hasn't ever had much reason to dwell on the ongoing symptom that is Harry Potter because, let's be real, he's not the problem, never has been. Sure, he's a problem for _other_ people, people doing all sorts of wrong stuff, but. Real problems are as follows:

The way Professor Binns never talks at length about anything else besides the Goblin Wars, and from a very biased and human wizard side of it too.

The fact that Professor Snape can get away with tormenting other students in the name of maintaining a safe potions environment. That he can claim favoritism in the name of protecting the most disdained of the houses, which could be fair if he did anything to curb the more nasty sides of those he claims as his dear Slytherin students. This is not plain to see, Terry knows, but.

It frustrates Daphne because it helps, and it doesn't, and Terry could listen to her go on for hours and hours about all the things the man could be doing better. There's no solidarity if behind closed doors they're allowed to tear into each other as long as no one can _see_ it, as long as they never get caught by anyone _but_ him.

 

 

 

(Terry may or may not be nursing a crush after three years of friendship, and his mothers would string him up like tinsel if he brought a part-Flora Colossi home. There are few things a born shifter has to fear, and a nature being of the isles is one of those for sure. From the earth they came, and the earth they shall return, is something he's heard since he was a wee thing. He doesn't think Daphne would turn him into fertilizer, but...

Anyway.)

 

 

The biggest problem is the British Wizarding World and their fixation on a fifteen year old, but a close second is Albus Dumbledore.

What sort of person of the highest moral authority cannot find a suitable DADA professor or find a way to circumvent a curse? Can't see the evil brewing in his own school, and stop it without the interference of eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, _fifteen year olds._ If this school wasn't so easily attended, Terry would have begged his mothers to send him to Argentina his second year and never left.

 

Diggory died barely four months ago. How many more of them have to be killed before everyone bloody wakes up?

 

And then, lo and behold, Potter comes back... changed, and a Real Problem.

It makes the wolf in Terry bristle, but want to whimper all the same because now _he's_ other people, and Harry Potter is no longer a symptom but a decidedly uninformed consequence. They're all going to pay for this, one way or another, and Terry doesn't want to pony up with his life as payment.

So. He should probably ask Davies what's their plan of action. Though, the seventh year's never been a good pack leader, for lack of a better term, especially since last year. It's been nearly two weeks and they've yet to make a move. Terry's glad Lovegood knows better than to let an emotion consume her, even though she's really strange.

Nanette might be his best bet. She's semi-friends with Potter, often managing to lure him into a game of Exploding Snap. Really, anyone else _besides_ Davies, honestly. Man, he can't wait for the wanker to graduate—

" _Hem, hem._ "

Terry jerks his head up in surprise, fingers curling tight to the transfiguration book in his hands. _Mierda._ "Yes, Professor?" he says, and tries not to wrinkle his nose. The woman smells so strongly of glamour magic he wonders how anyone can stand to be around her.

Umbridge smiles at him, and it's terrible with too may teeth. "Inquisitor, child," she reprimands curtly. Terry has to fight a curl to his lip, which he doesn't think she misses. "Why aren't you reading the assigned text, Mr. Boot?"

"Did it already," he dismisses because hello? Ravenclaw? Terry can admit to this stereotype. He has read the entirety of the book already and found it _completely_ wanting for a theoretical text. _Moved on to better pastures,_ is what he does not say.

He knows better.

"Really," she says, and yeah, the woman doesn't care, does she? "And, so now instead of reviewing, you have decided to do other classwork without permission during class time?"

Alright, Terry really has to stare at her now. He needs _permission_? Chancing a glance around, he sees that even his classmates look confused, but still largely irritated. Except for Morag. She just looks all the more murderous, less close to tears. Now he's pissed again too.

Who uses their power to force someone to unveil themselves, anyway? Barely a day back, and Umbridge's going to _town_. _Merlin,_ he wants to bite her. It wouldn't kill her, or even turn her, but she'd get really sick, and Terry would take that in a heartbeat. Then he'd be put down like a rabid dog because Britain is fucked.

Terry's leaving the isles first chance he gets and never looking back.

"I didn't know I needed permission to do classwork," he says, slow and stubborn, but as level as possible. "I've never been told otherwise."

The woman tuts, and glances around at the observing class. "Let this be a lesson for all of you then," she demurs, but he can see the hunger in her eyes, unsated. "Only Defense course work can be done during the period."

And, that's it. She turns away without another word, and Terry takes a long and deliberate moment before putting away his textbook.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Tomorrow's dinner brings about the scandal that was the Gryffindor and Slytherin Defense class.

He glances at Morag, at her hair tucked carefully under her hijab, and her still seething sister beside her; at Daphne one table over, avoiding his gaze. He has no doubts now.

 

 

 

Lines are being drawn, and Terry knows which side he wants to be on.


	33. pause to rewind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two things today for hitting 3k <3

Within two weeks, Umbridge does her best to alienate herself near completely with Hogwarts's populace. There are those who still _side_ with her, but so far they lack any power to cause any real harm, so it's a wayside concern. That she doesn't come for Harry again, not like before at least, makes Hermione suspicious even as she wants to melt with relief and worry. It's hard to go after someone if they do not give you justifiable cause, no matter the reach, but.

That first DADA class of the woman's return is still clear as day in Hermione mind. Harry had warned her and Ron, but he should have _known_ she would't trust anything out of hand. The Slytherins could have been playing him, preying upon the fact that statistically what they told him could be true. _Could be._ So.

Hermione was understandably shocked when they consolidated into a ring of green and silver around their tiny mustered red and gold. Not to forget it wasn't _all_ of them, but enough. Including _Malfoy,_ of all people sort of. He didn't look happy about being there, but he was.

 

Chewing on a pen cap, she crumples the parchment under her hands before reaching for a new sheet.

 

"Go to sleep, Granger," comes a hissed voice, and Hermione looks over to Lavender's canopy. The shadows are thick and wicked from her jar'd bluebell, but she thinks she can see the shine of the other girl's eyes, the shape of her face between the folds of the curtains. "It's bloody midnight, I'm sure you have more than enough time to finish the essay on Moonstones later."

Not that she's working on that, since she's finished it already, but. Midnight, alright. Hermione rolls her eyes, spits out the bit of plastic, and reaches for her wand over her ear. She taps the jar. " _Finite,_ " she whispers, and out goes the ball of blue.

It doesn't actually make much of a difference, the darkness, but Hermione makes a show of it, makes noise like she's gotten up, and climbed into bed. Waits for the deepened and chuffing breaths Lavender makes when she's truly asleep.

The girl waits one more beat before picking up her quill, and starting again. Cursive was never a lot of fun in primary school, but it's certainly easily appreciated now. Parvati would make a great teacher; her turning Harry's deplorable chicken scratch into legible handwriting must have made a professor or two weep with joy in their second year.

A muscle jumps in her jaw, and Hermione has to take a moment as she digs the quill tip into the parchment. Sometimes she just wants to bundle Harry up and hide him away from all prying and digging eyes. He's been dealt a pretty bad hand in life so far, so it's understandable, right? If only he'd just, just listen to her. She does know better, most of the time. Some of the time. Enough of the time she _does_ know best—

No. No, no, _Merlin_ , these thoughts have gotten more frequent. She's not his mother, and she's mostly not like this with Ron, or Dean, or lord forbid Ernie because. Because they're not as likely to run headlong into danger or roll over and _die_ if it means protecting them. Because they don't push, and shove her away when she tries to help. He needs, needs—

Hermione inhales. Exhales.

 

 

 

_What's wrong with me?_

 

 

 

The thought makes her drag a jagged line of ink across the parchment, ruining it, and she wants to throw the quill down with a disgusted growl. She doesn't only because she's sitting in near pitch, writing with the ease of sitting in full sunlight, and doesn't think even she could explain _that_ away.

This is also something of a hard pill to swallow. What's she going to tell her parents? Is she? Will she grow horns too? _F_ _angs_ of all things? None of those are things she can hide, let alone like Harry can.

 _Maybe I should sleep on it,_ she thinks, not for the first time nor the last.

Hermione lays the quill down, and leaves the desk as is to quietly crawl into bed. Her scarf slips over her ears, and she tugs it back down, briefly bemoaning the hair it pulls back with it. Ugh. She settles under her blankets, and spells the curtains closed, tries to quell her racing thoughts.

The girl squeezes her eyes shut, pushes down the nasty feeling bubbling in her chest.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 _Go to sleep,_ she tells her self, and dreams of firelight and heat.


	34. the middle man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're just gonna pretend Oliver didn't happen but I'm not gonna change the chapter. Lol.  
> (double update cos it was my bday last friday, and do u guys know how hard it was not to update then?? it was very hard)

Ernie had thought they'd had it all planned out. He'd approach Hermione first because, well, they're _supposed_ to be friends, but maybe he can't blame her. She's muggleborn after all, wouldn't trust a 'pureblood' with something she obviously _knows_ gets just as much disdain and prejudice.

 

 

 

So, that was the plan, and by that end, he gets Ron Weasley.

 

 

 

The taller boy gives him a squinty look, the chair he's tipping back in landing down on all fours with a _thump_. "Whatcha want, MacMllian?"

"Erm," the Hufflepuff stumbles, looking around. She was supposed to be here, tutoring, and yet. "I was hoping to catch Granger, but..."

There's nothing to fear of this Fire, Ernie knows. Not because he is a Hufflepuff, and the other boy has no preconceived prejudices, but also that any flames would slide right off like warm water. Human magic would be on equal footing. Mother has always explained that it likes finding the chinks in armor, worrying the weakest joints; it has no honor, and not many care. Though.

 

Surely, Weasley wouldn't want to get detention being Prefect and all.

 

"Yeah?" he says, defensive. "What for?"

The pros outweigh the cons, and so Ernie straightens, left hand coming flat to his chest. "I would like to request an audience with Lord Potter," he says, and tilts at the waist. Weasley looks startled, but there's recognition in his eyes.

"I'm not his keeper, mate," Weasley says after a moment, and Ernie straightens, feeling a little wrong-footed. He knows that, of course, but Hermione may as well be. "But," and the ginger gives him an assessing look, blue eyes bright, "I'll see what I can do, alright?"

 

 

 

Well, Ernie will take what he can get.


	35. the straw (that breaks the camel's back)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now with hover text for languages not English! (I'll go back and do it with other instances, but it doesn't work on mobile?? sorry!)

Tomorrow, at breakfast, Harry will give Hermione an exhausted, " _I'll do it_ ," but she will not feel better for it, not at all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It's near curfew when Alicia comes running up the stairs and all but yanks Ron out of his bed, hands gripping tight a flung arm. The boy flails, wakes with a shout, and they both go down with hard _thuds_. Dean peeks out from his canopy, and he and Harry share a startled look as the two untangle themselves.

"Bloody hell, Alicia," Ron yelps, dragging himself up by his night stand, "give a bloke some warning!"

The girl scrambles back up on her feet, and it's now they can really see her face, stressed and tear shiny. Dread curls slow and torturous in Harry's belly. "It's C-Colin," she gasps, and then she's reaching for Ron again. " _P-Please_ , something happened to him, Angelina told me to get you."

They're all jerking into motion then because, while the kid's annoying at worst, Harry _likes_ him with his sunny smiles and youth he never got to have, experience.

It's all a blur of motion before they tromp down the stairs, pulling jumpers over their heads, bare feet slapping against the cold floor. Frightened younger years are being shuffled to their own rooms by a frazzled looking Lee and pale Seamus, and as they make to slip by the deluge, Dean is hauled back. But. Lee just gives Harry an assessing look and lets him go despite the other boy protests.

 

 

Spilling from the corridor, the first thing Harry notices is the near silence.

Angelina is crouched next to a couch, her hair spilling down her back, and as they stumble closer over strewn cushions and upturned tables, there's tiny Dennis on his knees in front of his brother. Harry can't see the other boy's face, his arms clenched on either side of his head, hands locked behind, but there's a soft keening sound to the air.

"Co-lin," Dennis says, the name stretched on it's syllables in sing-song as he rubs slowly the lengths and outer sides of his brother's legs. "Co-lin, Co-lin."

Movement by the wall, a flash of blue, draws Harry's attention as Ron ventures closer and Alicia darts across the room with a sob. Standing half concealed by shadows is a Ravenclaw, and Harry starts toward them when they slide down the wall, alarmed.

He's next to them on the floor before he realizes who it is, reaching for their free hand.

 

"Lisa?"

 

She scrubs at her eyes, sleeve balled over her fist. " _Tôi xin lỗi, tôi không biết phải làm gì!_ " she whimpers, and then coughs, eyes welling with more tears. "I just _f-found_ him, hiding b-between a couple of s-suits of armors." Lisa shudders, and rubs roughly at her nose, wincing. Harry grimaces, the firelight highlighting her mucus streaked face and the shiner along her cheek bone. "His _hand_ —"

It's like the bottom drops out of his stomach, and bile itches at the back of his throat. _Merlin, not Colin,_ he thinks, and looks back over his shoulder.

Half behind a chair, he can see that Hermione's arrived, hands wringing, and leaned against Ron. Angelina is still on the floor, and Dennis is no longer speaking. Harry doesn't now if that's a good or bad sign, and he maybe wants to cry, nerves fraying on their already short wicks.

"I-I've n-never felt s-so _helpless_ ," Lisa croaks, breath hitching, and fingers tightening around his. "H-He fought m-me so _hard_ , b-but I w-was too s-scared to _stun_ h-him, hurt h-him _m-more_ —"

 

They learned _petrificus totalus_ in their second year. But. That was _Lockhart,_ and three years worth of students are now gone. The sixth and seventh years won't have had it any better, not to mention the fourth years and _below._ Remus was brilliant, a light in the darkness, but third year was more creature repulsion orientated than new spells and revision, something they so dearly need.

Seven generations of kids are going to _die_ at this rate, and it's a sobering thought.

 

 

 

 

 _I'm so tired,_ Harry thinks, and gently squeezes Lisa's hand, bundles tight the scream in his throat.

It's really unfair, truly, it is.


	36. the enemy of my enemy (is my friend)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait!

Daphne has never spent so much time around a more bull-headed Gryffindor in her life.

 

 

"You can't honestly think the Hog's Head is the safest place to have this meeting of yours?" she drawls, and arches an eyebrow because this is too ridiculous. "Let alone have enough room? The disquiet should ensure quite the turnout." A pause as Daphne pretends to think a moment, finger tapping her lip in a mocking manner. "And, what about the youngest years? They're our most vulnerable in these trying times."

_Or those without guardians willing to sign,_ she thinks, and keeps it to herself. If Daphne remembers alternating weekend afternoons sat with Theo because Nott the Senior couldn't be troubled with signing a little bit of paper for his only son, still can't be bothered to, then, well. That's not her story to share. _Morgana_ , the world would be a much better place without pulsing, pus sores like him.

Face mulish, Granger glares back. "Well, we can't do it in the school, now can we?" she snips, papers pressed tight to her chest, wrinkling. The Gryffindor looks close to bolting, and Daphne has to fight the amusement bubbling up. Always afraid, aren't they? "We'll be fish in a barrel either way, so if you have a better idea, I'd like to hear it."

Oh, alright. Maybe, just maybe, Daphne's not being fair because she really doesn't, but at this rate sneaking out to the Forbidden Forest might be a more worthwhile endeavor.

Disgusted with the situation, Daphne looks away, and drums her fingers on the table. Umbridge is a force to be reckoned with, this Daphne will admit. Vicious, dangerous, an adult no one should trust in two very important positions. Who's to say what that horrible woman will do when they're discovered. Nothing good, that's for sure, because there's no two ways about it, she will find out, one way or another.

The Slytherin sighs, and looks around, irritation waning into something more like exhaustion. The study area is empty save for them, so close to curfew, those seeking tutors half an hour gone. _Bother_. She still has that essay on the Vanishing spell to do. Shite.

"Sorry," she says after another terse moment, and Granger's face tightens in surprise, suspicious. "This situation is irritating, and I shouldn't be riling you up, so, please accept my most sincere apology."

And, really, Daphne doesn't think Granger will response the correct way because what Muggleborn actually remembers anything of Wizarding Etiquette classes if they've even taken them, so she starts to reach for her bag since they were cleaning up to get ready to leave anyway—

 

"I graciously accept your apology, Heiress Greengrass, your transgression is forgiven and absolved."

 

She whips her head back up, startled. Granger doesn't look smug to have caught her off guard, doesn't look pleased at all, just. Just vaguely nervous, probably wondering if she got it right.

 

Which, she would have if they were on equal social footing, and they're... not, it's presumptuous to think so, and.

 

 

Well. Maybe they could, can be. Maybe not as wizards, but where it _really_ matters.

 

 

Daphne starts to open her mouth, to say something to that effect, but. Doesn't. It's unbecoming, how much she finds she actually wants better for the mud-muggleborn, now. It's not a flattering change of heart, Daphne knows this, and Granger has full rights to be resentful of it. There's just reputations to uphold, so, she gives the other girl a nod instead.

Granger looks relieved, if only a little, and begins to collect her things.

Only. A paper manages to slip loose, flutters away from one of the Gryffindor's textbooks, Granger blissfully unaware in her haste to escape. Daphne makes a soft noise as she starts after it.

She's just pinched the parchment up from the floor when there's a flicker in the corner of her eye. A pale face, the flying tips of red hair, for one very brief second. Daphne realizes the study room isn't so empty after all, and curses her lack of forethought. Granger's privacy charm is easily intruded upon, after all.

"Granger," she calls, looking away briefly, and the other girl stops, nearly out the door. With a nod to the stacks, the Slytherin continues, "Weasley, if you've something to say, say it."

There's a moment where Daphne thinks the younger girl won't come out. She's reevaluating her opinion of the Gryffindor when Weasley the youngest shuffles forward into the open. She looks shifty for a Gryffindor, but as usual not afraid. Just. Uncomfortable. Horrifically so.

"Ginny, did you need something?" Granger asks, even with her again, seemingly as bewildered as Daphne feels. "Curfew's soon, but if you want I can help you with homework once we're back in the common room?"

Weasley looks like a startled kirin illuminated by fairy lights, but shakes her head. "No, it's just that I heard you two," she says, and pauses, swallows visibly like the next words are a struggle, but juts her chin out the barest bit, "and I know somewhere we could go."

_Where else could they go?_ This thought boggles Daphne, though if it's any better than an abandoned classroom or the Hog's Head, she might actually approve of the girl's tentative friendship with Astoria.

The Slytherin crooks a hip, impatient. "And, where's this exactly?"

Weasley glances between them, clearly looking for some support from Granger. She must find it because the line of her shoulders eases just a little. "The C-Chamber," she says, the faintest of waiver to her words, face going paler if possible.

The Slytherin's mood sours even further. Bloody hell. "That isn't funny, Weasley," she says, tone carefully bland, and chances a glance at Granger. The Chamber isn't real, it's just a myth of bygone times. Right?

Granger's face is contemplative, deeply considering, but. She doesn't have the uncomfortable look of someone faced with a clearly still traumatized girl.

Daphne will admit the rumors had gotten wilder and wilder by the second before they even reached the Slytherin grapevine. That a Weasley of all people had been behind the attacks was laughable. Less so when Potter had apparently saved her and the school from a terribly strong and sentient but cursed object. It was no matter that malevolent magic had been goading her, eating up her magic and lifeforce in equal turn, in the end. The memories are fading, losing their intensity with time, but for a while Ginerva Weasley herself had been something of a pariah amongst her yearmates.

 

 

(Astoria hadn't thought it was fair, but it just isn't their place to associate with blood traitors, after all.)

 

 

Her dormmates had liked to joke that if the Dark Lord were really gone, she would make a fine replacement. Daphne had laughed.

She's not now.

"No one ever really validated the existence of Slytherin's Chamber," Daphne admits to the silence, cautiously. Weasley is starting to turn red, in embarrassment, in anger, she doesn't know, just that the the scant humidity to the air is drying out. "Please excuse me if I express doubt at a _very_ poor idea of a joke."

Granger expels a tired puff of air. "It's real. You didn't honestly think Harry and Voldemort dueled it out in the girls loo, did you?"

Daphne contains her instinct to flinch. No. Maybe. But. "... He dueled the Dark Lord?" At bloody thirteen? What the hell happened?  _How did he not die, again?_

She'd never admit this even at promise of death, but it gives her  _hope._

With a look of confusion, Granger turns to her. "I'd figured that the whole school knew," she says, and leans briefly on one foot, then the other. "When no one asked, or talked about it after, we all just sort of… let it go. There were more pressing issues that next year, so…" She trails off, and gives a glance at Ginny, vaguely guilty. "I hadn't realized no one got the full story… these last couple years make a bit more of sense now."

There's a pause. Granger's considering her next words when Weasley's eyes widen, and someone clears their throat.

Both Daphne and Granger manage a controlled turn around.

 

 

Pucey stands in the doorway, robes rumpled as usual and Head Boy badge askew. "It's ten minutes past curfew," he drawls, and Granger jolts as if shocked.

"Right!" she chuckles, barely nervous sounding at all. Who knew that Gryffindors could act. "I was just about to escort Ginny back to the dorms. We got caught up with tutoring, is all."

Her fellow Slytherin gives Daphne an incredulous look. _When did you start willingly hanging out with Gryffindors,_ asks those eyes. _Especially **these** Gryffindors?_

She shrugs, covering the almost caught lie. "I'm better at explaining charms then Granger," she says, and enjoys the little huff of disbelief it gets from the other girl.

"Right," Pucey says, and gives them a slightly suspicious once over before turning right back on around without another word.

They watch him go, breath easier as he disappears around the corner of the corridor. Daphne exhales, doesn't quite deflate, and with a suck on her teeth, hands the paper over to Granger.

"Close one," she says, bland.

Weasley gives her a narrow eyed look. "... Going to invite him, are you?"

"If you want to end up expelled, I will," Daphne says, because Pucey only looks unassuming and disorganized to those outside their house.

He's anything but.

 

 

(Oh, he's perfectly civil, but he's also the biggest bigot of the entire lot, and that's saying something with Malfoy around. Pucey hates humans, part-humans, and people like Granger with every single fiber in his being. He's just too tactful, too smart, to share his views with the entire world. But. It's just none of her business as long as he leaves her and Astoria alone.)

 

 

Granger seems conflicted. Like she wants to laugh, but this is serious business, and she's no right to. "We'll finish this conversation, perhaps, Thursday? I'll run this by Harry before then."

"That's acceptable," Daphne relents, like it's pulling teeth, galling to say. It's not, but it's terrible how much everything is changing. "I'll get back to you about a communication alternative by then."  _Because Merlin, coins?_

And, maybe it's just the absurdity of it all, but Daphne thinks Granger smiles at her for just a moment, and the air suddenly smells much too sweet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Oh, Granger,_  Daphne'll think later in bed, a moist towel laid across her forehead as her pulse throbs with the headache.  _So much to learn._


	37. interlude pt. 11: respite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was supposed to go out Friday with the tFNB update, and then i rewrote it comepletely and it doubled in word count lmao. Anyway, enjoy? <3

Luna sees him from the Owlery window, owl having fluttered off letter on leg, flying lazy circles around the Practice field. Curfew is not for a few hours yet, but the sky is darkening, and Harry Potter is only just a dark blur breezing through the air.

She curls her toes in the too big shoes, satchel of meat fine under a preservation charm, and decides that yes, she'll go the long way around tonight. The girl nods to herself, decision made, and leaves, makes her careful way down the spiral tower and out the bottom side door.

Cool air brushes her face, tickles through her hair. The moon shines near full and heavy just beyond the ramparts and Forbidden Forest, stars twinkling overhead behind cloud smears. He doesn't see Luna yet, back to her as he traces the boundary. With a faint smile, Luna makes her way to the middle of the field, where they first learned to ride broomsticks what seems much too long ago.

And, after she takes the shoes off, she waits there for him to come back, silver in the nightlight.

The moment that Harry Potter spots her, Luna knows almost immediately. Right as he turns the next corner, bending with the walls cradling them in, his broom does something she can only call a hiccup, bucking as he slows for the briefest moment, before regaining the speed he'd had. For a second, she almost thinks he might just fly on by, and knows she'd probably deserve it, but. He starts too, his shadow crossing the ground in front of her, before he seems to think different of it, and then Harry Potter is coasting down to her.

He makes an interesting expression as he drops the short space to the ground from his broom. Luna's not sure she can place it, not exactly. He opens his mouth, but then closes it, tries, unsure after a moment, "... Lovegood."

She nods. "Luna," she corrects, and at the sour face he makes, shrugs faintly.

Silence falls. Harry Potter stares at her, confusion bleeding into his terribly green eyes.

"Uh, you needed something, or..."

Luna smiles a little more, now. "No," she says, and his eyes focus on the shoes in her hands, then at her bare feet, "I just wanted to say hello." A pause, and she wiggles her toes into the damp dirt. "Hello, Harry Potter."

Bewildered, he clutches his broom closer to his chest, and light reflects off his glasses, the unmarred parts of his horns. "Hello... Luna," he says.

Goal accomplished, Luna nods again, and steps around him. "Goodbye," she says, and makes for the Firebolt Gate, as people have come to call it after the Tournament. Silly, she thinks, but worthwhile.

Luna only makes it a few steps. "Wait! Where are you—" a strangled noise as he cuts himself off, then, flatly—"... you're going out to the Qudditch Field."

"The Forbidden Forest, actually," she says, and turns back around, just a little.

 

 

The girl can see it in his eyes, the curiosity, the question he wants to ask despite himself. _Why?_

 

 

With a hum, Luna shifts the shoes to her other hand, and, well, they are her shoes now, aren't they? "Come with me."

"It's dangerous," he says, seemingly growing frustrated, but not at her.

She can't help a small chuckle. "Hermione Granger with a book is more dangerous," Luna counters, softly, and feels lighter than air when it startles a laugh out of him.

"That's… probably true," he allows, and shuffles forward. He draws his wand after a cautious moment, and shrinks the broom, slides it gently into a trouser pocket.

 

 

Then, they're walking.

 

 

The grounds are quiet, almost eerily so, as they cross them. Harry Potter follows her as she leaves the path to the Quidditch Field and across the grass. The Forest looms closer as they walk, and they're almost at the treeline when he can't seem to hold it in anymore.

"You're barefoot, with no socks," Harry Potter points out, almost conversationally.

Luna debates stringing him along, giving him some practice, but no. Another time, perhaps. "I seem to have misplaced most of them, I'm afraid," she says, peering into the gloom for the trail she usually takes, "my socks, I mean. Nargles've stolen all my shoes—" and, here, she wiggles the pair in her hands— "these are mine now, though."

"And... you're not wearing them for a reason."

Good. He's getting better. "Don't want to startle the moss-people," she says, distracted. Ah. There's the twisted branch.

"Moss-people."

She looks him straight in the face then, with the blankest expression. Because. Because he thinks she's having him on, and while Luna would love to pull his leg, she's not right now. But, she knows it won't help, and is all the more amused for it.

"Yes," Luna says, and then she's pushing through the bushes, mindful of the branches that catch against her leggings, with Harry Potter trailing after.

She'd cut the path at first, cleared only what she really needed, and then let it grow and avoid her over the past four years. It's quite the beaten path now, relatively new growth yet to weed out the foliage below, narrow between the trees. Luna ambles along easily enough, but Harry Potter stumbles and curses behind her, making something of a racket. Which is fine.

 

 

They're far enough away from anything that would really want to hurt them, anyway.

 

 

It doesn't take long for them to reach the clearing, opposite the usual and much wider path. It's empty at the moment, but there's a tingle to the air, so not for much longer.

Moonlight flares brilliant and silver from a hole in the canopy, turns the grass and roots shimmering. Luna hums again, and moves close enough to toe the edge of the light.

"We're waiting for something," he says, and Luna can see him in the corner of her eye as he follows her example.

"We are," she agrees, and the first smudge of black descends from the sky.

The thestral lands with a whisper, knickers as it canters forward and to a stop. Its wings flap awkwardly for a moment before folding right, and Luna giggles. Harry Potter sucks in a breath when its head whips in their direction, milk white eyes ghastly in the night. It exhales, long and slow, and its bones rattle under the pressure.

"That… that means something," he whispers, fearless and fearful in equal parts, but awed all the same

Luna rummages in her bag before answering. "Something of a… threat display. State your intentions, or suffer the consequences."

"What!" he yelps, and gets a palm full of raw meat when he turns toward her.

He doesn't quite catch it though, and it slaps against his chest, much to his dismay. "This is… raw meat."

"Yes, and you might want to offer it before the threstral decides to stomp on you to get it," Luna says. "Their hooves are much sharper than a non-magical horse."

His hands shoot out, arms bisected by the moonlight, and scars glittering pale on his skin. The meat hangs precariously in the tips of his fingers, and drips, just a little.

The thestral rattles one more time before inhaling, and tilts its head. It steps forward cautiously, head lowered and beak clicking in curiosity.

Harry Potter doesn't flinch as it tugs the meat from his hands, and quickly chews up the hunk.

 

 

"I think it likes you," Luna says, and watches as the rest of the herd descends from the sky.

 

 

The adults land much more smoothly than the juveniles, who flap and gallop to a rest. The single foal spills to the ground with a thud, much to the amusement of the herd who knicker in a ripple. Stung, it hops up and skips out from the center, right up to Harry Potter. Luna smiles when he looks at her, wide eyed, as the foal tugs at his empty fingers, gentle with its sharp beak and fangs.

"Thestrals are misunderstood," she says, and pulls more meat from her bag. "They're no worse than a banshee, or a particularly riled gnome."

He's clearly dubious about the first part of what she said. "Professor Grubby-Plank talked about them, a little," Harry Potter says, running his fingers over the thin main of the foal as it slices into the meat. "Said only those who've witnessed Death could see them. Then Lavender and Alicia said Professor Trelawney said they were bad omens, and brought misfortune."

Hm. Yes. "Well, wouldn't want to mistreat them, then," Luna says, pressing closer an adult. It picks at her hair, teeth gentle against her scalp. "If any of that is true. Well, besides the Death part."

"Oh."

He wants to ask, she can tell.

It still aches, feels like it was only yesterday sometimes. And—

 

 

 

Maybe it's only fair.

 

 

 

"I was there, when my mother died. She liked to experiment, you see," Luna starts, and brushes back a few strands. The thestral pauses in its preening, and nudges her cheek. "She'd just gotten her regular delivery of ingredients, but there was one bottle too many. Mummy'd only turned away for a moment, to fire call the apothecary, when the cork popped open." Luna presses into the thestral's face, and runs her fingers along its sharp jawline. "I was sitting only a few feet away, as usual, because she never did anything unsafe while I was there. She was going to make Pepper Up, was all, see if she could make it less addictive. But the cork popped open and out crawled… smoke. It reached for me, and I screamed, but Mummy was faster, a duelist in her own right, Daddy says. _Protego Duo_ , she protected me, and when it rebounded off the shield-"

She'd been seven, and remembers the explosion just consuming the room, plunging everything into darkness. Then, no one really believed her, after. Mummy was known for her spectacular explosions, and what was one more, the one that finally got her?

"I'm, I'm so sorry Luna, you didn't…"

"No, I wanted to, to even the playing field," she continues, and lets the thestral pull away. "I just wanted you to know, since I've seen you at your most... vulnerable, and we've only just met." She reaches for some more meat as another juvenile presses forward eagerly. "She was a Changeling, Daddy is sure, and I think… I think someone figured it out, somehow."

Oh, dear that was more than she meant to say. Luna wipes at her eyes with her sleeve, and lets the meat be pulled at in her hand. "But, that's neither here nor there, and bad things happen in the World, but good things too, and you shouldn't let those bad things drag you down, is all. Which, is easier said than done, I know. It took me a long time to stop blaming myself for what happened."

She offers Harry Potter the last of the meat after a moment, and he looks at her as he takes the meat. Just _looks._

"... Why do you care?"

Luna shudders, bloody and cold fingers curling against her palms. "The World can be unkind to us," she finds herself saying, almost as if from a much further distance. "And, I'd just like to be your friend, you seem nice, and deserve so much better."

He relaxes a smidge, much to her concern. A dangerous thing, power. "I'm sorry, I… I just had to know."

"I forgive you," she says, pauses as the color seeps back in, "but, please, don't do that again."

Harry Potter recoils as if hit, and nearly drops the meat. "I _—_ I won't. I'm sorry."

Luna exhales, feels too heavy, and looks up at the moon. "It's almost curfew, I think, best to go now."

He nods, gingerly, more unsure of himself, she thinks. The meat goes to the next adult, who takes it eagerly. The foal whines at the grown thestral, and when it is ignored, kicks its tiny back legs in a tantrum before flouncing off.

A wail picks up not a moment after, the thestrals' evening song, and the loose gathering cluster closer together. They watch for a few moments before Luna tugs at Harry Potter's sleeve, breaking him of his trance. She'd been the same that first time.

"They must really like you to be showing off," she says as they turn to leave the opposite way they came.

Slowly the song disappears from earshot the further away they go, the Forest scattering the path behind them as they leave.

Then _—_  "Thank you, Luna. R-Really."

Luna pauses, just a half step slower. "You're welcome, Harry Potter."

A pause of his own, the nightly chatter picking up with the distance they put between themselves and the thestrals. "Just, just Harry, is fine," he mumbles, as if he wants her to hear, but not at the same time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Harry, just Harry_ , she muses.

 

 

 

 

 

 

"You're welcome, Harry," Luna says, and the Forest comes to an end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notice! I'll be taking June, July, and half of August to work on this! So last update will be June 2nd! Y'all are the best, see ya later!


	38. the pariah faction

"What are _they_ doing here?"

 

 

 

The room is filling up nicely, the chairs being taken by those who need them and those that don't stand where there is, or was, space. So, Nanette maybe enjoys the sight of row after row of heads swiveling around to stare. Smith doesn't back down from the attention, and stalls at the door, much to the irritation of some of his house.

"Well?" he demands, and crosses his arms.

Someone groans behind him. "Oh, for Merlin's sake, _move_ , Smith, before someone sees us!"

 

 

And from there, it goes downhill.

 

 

Granger only just manages her bit. Thank you for coming. Defense cannot be theoretical only. Harry is the best at it, and he's willing to show anyone who wants to take the time to learn. Everyone is welcome. The high points, the important bits, al good things, only.

Smith scoffs, and Granger falls silent. Nanette's seen that look before mirrored on Terry's face, a laser focus and intent eyes, as he tracks something across the Great Hall. Considering. Determining. Those precious seconds before action, before the prey is downed, too quick to blink. Before Malfoy takes a pudding to the back of the head.

_Oh,_ she can't wait.

"Why should we listen to him?" Smith sneers, and she wonders where the qualities that made him a Hufflepuff went. "Especially, since he brought _Slytherins_."

Weasley puffs up like an angry kneazle as Harry blinks incredulously. "Because You-Know-Who's back, you tosspot," Weasley growls, face reddening, and at least two thirds of the room shifts anxiously. "And, they're here, so deal with it or leave."

"How can we trust that? It's all he ever says, that You-Know-Who is back, and now he's all chummy with his lackeys?" He splays his hands, seemingly ignorant to the tension he's making. "Where's the proof, anyway? Or better yet, why doesn't he just tell us all about how Diggory died, hm?"

No one answers for a moment, and Smith makes to speak again when Harry cuts him off.

"Why are you even here?" he says, and it's a frigid calm, so cold Nanette can't suppress a shiver. And, that's something for a shifter like her. "Everyone is welcome, but if all you want is the… the sordid details of how one of our own was _murdered_ , see me after classes instead of making a scene like a _child_."

Nanette's hand flies to her mouth amid the gasps and snorts of surprise. Oh. Oh, that is _new_. Mind, time has been little between them for a good while now, but such poise, such venom. _Someone's been taking pointers_ , she thinks, eyes the smug face of one Blaise Zabini. No better a teacher, in all honesty. With his mind put to it, Zabini could take someone out at the knees.

And yet, Smith's not done, no matter that his face has lost its color at the prospect of a challenge. He's opening his mouth—

 

Smith stiffins.

 

Behind him are the Weasley Twins, grins anything but mirthful. Michael and Terry give Nanette weak looks from their new seats amongst the seething Gryffindors. "Oh, shut up won't you, Smith?" says the one on the left, and there's something glinting in the other's hand. "If we have to listen to any more of your dribble, I think I might just do us all a favor and off you myself."

There's a smattering of chuckles, equal parts nervous and genuinely amused. Three guesses to who's enjoying this the most, and the first two don't count, because even Nanette can't tell how much of that was a joke.

"Sit _down_ , Zach," orders Susan, and the boy drops into his seat, back ramrod straight.

Weasley gives the room a dirty look as it settles. "Any _other_ questions?"

A heartbeat, and then a hand inches up from within the green and silver to much amusement. Astoria. "I heard Potter could manage a corporal _Patronus_?"

Granger and Weasley look to Harry, and he nods, the shadows catching oddly across his face. "I can, which is a charm I'll be showing anyone who wants to learn it."

Murmurs breakout because. Because well, that is _quite_ the advanced charm.

"Where are we meeting? Here?" shoots someone else, tone carefully dubious.

"No," Harry says, "we have the space for all of you, but before we get to any of that, I need anyone not totally invested in this to leave."

"Didn't we already prove that by signing the parchment?" Nanette asks, even as she knows most of them probably didn't read too much into the fine print. Granger can be downright nasty to protect her friends, and it's refreshing.

Harry blinks at her in surprise. "No," he repeats, and casts a brief but hard look at Smith, who hunches his shoulders. "And we need each and every one of you to give your all to this. Just having this meeting alone could get us all expelled. So, leave now if that's too much for you, no judgements here."

It seems to sink in a bit more now, the seriousness of all this. The secrecy, the trust being placed with everyone present. No one leaves, though, and after a long moment of silence, Harry sighs. In relief, in exhaustion, in determination, probably all three.

"Slytherin's Chamber is real."

 

A beat, then—

 

_Noise_ erupts all at once, and the privacy charm strains around them at the volume, Nanette can see the glitter of it as it wavers.

 

 

_That's right, he's a Parseltongue!_

_Didn't Ginny Weasley have something to do with that forever ago? We can't just waltz into a, a Dark Wizard's lair, we'll be killed!_

_He's absolutely bonkers he is, the Chamber of Secrets, of all things! Wasn't the rumor that Moaning Myrtle guards the entrance in her bathroom?_

_He wouldn't send us somewhere he hadn't already cleared, would he? Potter's too much of a goody two shoes for—_

 

 

" _Oi!_ "

And then, it cuts out, silence falling faster than it takes to blink. Weasley sniffs and leans back in his chair, crosses his arms. "Questions nice 'n orderly, alright?" he says, clearly daring for anyone to say otherwise. "And, remember, we're on a time limit here."

Nanette chances a glance around the room, tugs at the collar of her robes. Seems even the Slytherins didn't know what he was planning. Must feel awful being wrongfooted for once.

"So it's true, what happened two years ago? The Chamber was really opened?" asks Macmillan, hand smoothing his fluffy hair nervously. "It… It really was a basilisk?"

Harry swallows. "Yeah, it was," he admits, and makes an abortive move to grip his right arm. "It's dead now, though, so there's nothing to worry about."

A hand tugs on Nanette's sleeve, and turning, Morag nods to her sister. Nanette watches Isobel for a second, eyes narrowing, and then taps _ok_ against her chest. "Does that mean everything else true?" she repeats aloud, and suddenly everyone's eyes are on her. It doesn't bother her. "That The Philosopher's stone was here and Professor Quirrell was possessed by You-Know-Who? Weasley—"

A pained look draps Harry's face, but he should know that she's not afraid to poke where it hurts if asked though Nanette feels a little bad about it.

Granger interrupts with a frown. "We're not here to talk about that," she says, darts a worried look at Harry. "And, while you can ask those questions on your own time, it doesn't mean you'll get an answer."

"Fair enough," she allows, and as Morag signs the last of it in the corner of her eye, Nanette turns to Isobel with a _what-can-you-do shrug_.

Isobel nods, fingertips moving from her chin, down and away. _Thank you_.

It winds down from there. The first time is set, instructions drilled twice on how to make their way up stairs, and an assortment of earrings made of plastic are handed out. They're a gaudy silver and neon variety of colors, something Nanette imagines might dazzle a muggle child or two. Quite a few around her mumble with distaste, but most marvel at the way a tiny spooled spring lets them clip on. She watches one snap shut on Terry's finger, and stifles a giggle as he flails with a near miss for Anthony, who scowls.

"Wear these as often as you can, the earrings are connected one way to ours, and when times are decided, the words will be whispered into your ears after they warm up briefly," Granger explains, and next to Nanette, Davies pokes at his, and comes away with a hiss. "A tiny piece of iron anchors the charms, so try not to get them wet, if you can."

"Won't the pink hag notice this new trend and ban it?" calls a Weasley twin, grinning despite his words. Clearly they both had a hand in this.

"With luck, she won't notice what she can't see," Weasley says, and showcases one in his hand. He clenches it, and when his fingers uncurl, the earring is gone. "It's covered in Chameleon paste, another reason to not get them wet, but they take well to disillusionment if that happens. Just clamp it into your ear, and cover it with your hand for a second and there you go."

Chameleon paste isn't popular in Britain, a kind of one use per application, but it radiates less aura than Glamours to those who can… well, pierce the Veil, so to speak. Less of a visual annoyance, in truth, one that Nanette appreciates. Umbridge has been lit up like the a Christmas tree ever since she returned, and it's a strain to her poor eyes. Nanette wonders where they got it.

Murmurs breakout, but Potter clears his throat, and they stop. "Final word of warning," he starts, and everyone shifts, "no bullying or harassing each other, at all. Get caught doing it and you're out."

Which only means don't get caught. Not like Harry's omniscient, after all, but at least he made the effort, and looks like he means it.

 

 

 

 

Nanette couldn't have asked for more than that.


	39. and the beat goes marching on

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /finger guns

Dawn of the first day, the Golden Trio look like utter shite.

 

 

“Wonder what they were up to,” Theodore says, sips at his milk. Haneda gives him a baleful look across the table, but is otherwise ignoring him, and since it's early, he'll forgive her.

He's gracious like that.

Gupta flops his head over, dark shadows under his eyes, and sighs, hands flexing over the empty table. Breakfast is a little late, it seems. “What do you mean?” he asks flatly, dutiful as he is required.

With a brush of his hair, he gives the upper year a droll look. “Just look at them. You'd think they'd get a good rest if they were going to be doing you-know-what today.”

“That's none of my business,” Gupta says, and blinks, slowly. Yawns with a jaw cracking stretch. “I'm not sure I'm even going to go. Tired, so tired.”

Movement in Theodore’s peripheral, then Blaise drops down across from him, next to Haneda. Theodore squints. His pupils are about the size of gobstones. “You did insist on taking two N.E.W.Ts this year, Amrish.”

With an annoyed noise, Gupta sits up. “Shut the hell up, _Zabini_ ,” he says, and a cluster of Hufflepuff appear in the Great Hall just as the food does. “Professors Flitwick and Vector are already kicking my arse, don't need you doing it too.”

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Blaise shoots back, but Gupta busies himself with the food and doesn't answer.

Theodore sighs. A catty Blaise, is a chatty Blaise. Must have eaten already, then, to be in such a good mood. Well, with him here, Theodore can get down to business. “Haneda,” he says, and the girl looks at him out of the corner of an eye, as close to acknowledgment he's going to get. “Please stop harassing Takagi.”

“Oh,” Blaise says, and twists to look at Haneda, much to her displeasure. “Whatever for?”

“He started it,” she hisses, and curses something in Japanese under her breath. Blaise smirks, so it must be particularly nasty. “I will finish it.”

You'd think a sixth year wouldn't get all haughty over a second year, but here they are. “You keep this up and he's going to get Pucey involved, and you do _not_ want Pucey involved.”

The girl shudders, as she should. “ _Fine,_ ” she spits, and stabs at a hunk of eggs.

Gupta burps, drawing their disgusted attention. “You two,” and he waves a fork between Blaise and Theodore, “are like den Mothers. Fathers. Parents, whatever, it's adorable.”

Haneda makes a disgruntled noise, but it's not like Gupta is wrong. He just doesn't know the half of it.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The fifth floor girls loo is a bit of a tight fit, but they make it, somehow. Bhagat bumps into him, shifting as the crowd behind them shifts forward. To accommodate more arrivals, no doubt. Others shoot their group suspicious looks, and a Hufflepuff edges as far as she can to keep distance between her and Theodore in the limited space. She doesn't quite manage it, to his amusement.

Higgs fidgets next to Theodore, draws the younger boy’s attention. “Potter expects us all to go down _there?_ ” he hisses, under a breath, tongue forked for a brief moment, and the most agitated the other boy has ever seen him. “His sense of smell must be _shit._ ”

Theodore opens his mouth, to speculate, really, but then Weasley clears his throat and the discontent falls to a murmur.

“Is there anyone here who would prefer stairs though it's a bit of a walk?” he asks the crowd, and Theodore stiffens, thrown at the thought put into that question.

 

_How… conscientious._

 

A few hands inch up, uncertainly. Turpin. Jordan. Goldstein. _Higgs,_ next to him.

Weasley nods at the count. “You lot can go last, if everyone else is fine with a bit of a slide,” he explains as Potter edges closer to the sinks with a _hiss._ It slides back, rock on rock, and a hole is there in the floor. “Don't worry, we cleaned the pipe up, so everything should be good.”

“Is… Is this how we're coming back up?” asks someone behind Theodore. “You said it was a bit of a way down, right?”

Granger answers that, purses her lips. “No, we've found… exits to various parts around the castle, but so far none of them open back up once you leave them.”

There’s a ripple to the crowd. Relief, and annoyance. Excitement, too. And, well. Maybe Theodore would be lying if he didn't say he enjoyed the cart rides at Gringotts.

Potter steps away, and gestures to the supposed grand entrance to the Chamber of Secrets. “Ron,” he says, and Weasley nods, and takes those few steps out into thin air.

Theodore is _extremely_ impressed. Most can't stomach the stairs when they decide to be funny, decide to swing you around and make you at least ten minutes late to class. And, Weasley dropped down like it was no one's business. Though, to be fair, the three of them have probably gotten use to it now.

They wait a few seconds in silence, then—

“ _Ready when you are,_ ” drifts up from within, echoing in a drawl.

“Alright, who's next?” asks Granger, and no one answers, the whole lot suddenly yellow-bellied. She huffs, hands finding her hips. “We don't have all night, you know.”

With a sigh, Theodore pats Higgs’s arm, and says to Blaise, “Be seeing you,” before pushing free from their little protective clique.

The crowd parts easily, and he's peering into the pitch soon enough much to Potter and Granger's surprise. Theodore hums, and toes the edge of the stone. He can't quite tell when the pipe begins to curve, but Weasley dropped straight down, so he should be… fine.

“Nott,” says Potter, gives him an unsure look.

Theodore gives him a vague nod of acknowledgement, and _jumps._

Darkness rushes up to meet him, gobbles up all the light whole, and he's flying down and _down._  It _is_ a lot like the carts in Gringotts, nearly as winding, but the inside of the pipe is smooth not from draining water, and the cool wind whips around his eyes and ears, his hair fluttering back furiously.

Theodore doesn't make a sound as the tunnel comes to an abrupt end into relative gloom. He stumbles up right as he's spat out, feet sliding on clear stone floor. Weasley is there to help steady him, and the warmth of his hands makes the hair on his neck rise with barely concealed electricity. _What a rush,_ he muses, heart thumping hard in his chest. Theodore brushes at his robes, his windswept hair, and there must be some kind of silent signal because then a shriek bursts from the pipe, followed by a scream. 

Khan comes tumbling out, laughing of all things, and manages to stay on their feet long enough to stagger into Theodore. “That… That was fun!” they exclaim, hands gripped tight into his robe, and a heavy weight to his right side.

Weasley chuckles on his left, and Khan whips in his direction, scandalized. Must have forgotten Theodore hadn't gone first.

“Good for you,” he says, and picks at her hands. “Now let go, you're wrinkling my robes.”

Shooting one last look at Weasley, they stick their tongue out. “Party pooper.”

Theodore rolls his eyes.

It goes quicker after Khan. One after another comes hurtling down the pipe, ruffled and flustered from the speed and decline. A few of the first years have to be consoled after having fancied themselves of sturdy stock and found the pipe ride a terror unto itself. Higgs comes last down the stairs, particularly dull in the face, and trailing Turpin and Jordan, but followed by Potter who dismisses the steps. Even with them all there, the corridor is spacious, and the glint of scattered bone glints where wall meets floor.

 

A Basilisk lived here, no doubt about it.

 

“Alright, let's move along,” Weasley says, voice carrying oddly in the space.

Like a ripple in water, they begin to move, a decent approach to the darkness in front of them. A gap forms as, around Theodore, classmates forge ahead, his housemates waiting, watching. He inhales, exhales. Trust is such a heavy thing to hold, but.

Everything is fine, and he sees nothing, nothing at all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Theodore leads, and they follow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Something stirs, languid and tired._

_Yawns._

_So little time, so much to do..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there are so many Hogwarts students but finding some first or second years during OotP is like pulling teeth!  
> and, uh, please leave comments? I love them a lot, you guys are great, I'd like to hear what y'all like!


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